Politics in Friendship: A Theological Account 9780567029362, 9780567659521, 9780567655615

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Politics in Friendship

Politics in Friendship A Theological Account Guido de Graaff

Bloomsbury T&T Clark An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Bloomsbury T&T Clark An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

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www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2014 Paperback edition first published 2016 © Guido de Graaff, 2014 Guido de Graaff has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the author. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-0-567-02936-2 PB: 978-0-567-66750-2 ePDF: 978-0-567-65561-5 ePub: 978-0-567-65562-2 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India Printed and bound in Great Britain

Contents Acknowledgements Introduction

1

2

3

4

5

6

Friendship and Politics: Initial Explorations I Descriptions II Choosing a perspective III Friends in earthly cities

vii 1 11 11 17 22

A Story of Friendship: Bell and Bonhoeffer I Ways towards friendship II The story III The friendship

39

Common Action I Aristotle: Friendship in the city II Arendt: Politics as acting together III Bell and Bonhoeffer: Acting politically?

63

Common Judgement I Responding to evil II Judgement as political act III Judging together Friends Judging in Times of Crisis I In the company of judgement II Judgement in repentance and forgiveness III Spectatorship or obedience Ecclesial Judgement I Jesus’ gift of friendship (Jn 15) II Mutual submission in service (Rom. 12) III Judgement received in friendship

39 46 56

63 74 86 93 93 99 111 123 123 133 140 153 153 164 172

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Contents

Friends in the Church and Political Society I Friendship within the body of christ II Friendship and political responsibility III Conclusion

Appendix 1: Excerpt from Bell’s Diary Appendix 2: D  ie Stuttgarter Schulderklärung/The Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt Appendix 3: ‘Der Freund’/‘The Friend’ Bibliography Index

179 179 189 200 205 207 210 217 225

Acknowledgements This book is based on the doctoral thesis I wrote at Oxford University, so my first word of thanks is to my supervisor Dr Bernd Wannenwetsch. He was right in warning me at the outset that my topic, though rewarding, would not be easy to handle. Without his wisdom, encouragement and patient steering I would surely have lost my way. I also thank Prof. Oliver O’Donovan for acting as an informal additional supervisor, reading and commenting on my writing at several stages of the process. I am grateful to Harris Manchester College for the privilege of being part of its unique and friendly community, and for the use of its facilities throughout my doctorate. I would not have been able to undertake my doctoral studies without the financial support received from the following institutions: Studiefonds Pro Rege, the Faculty of Theology (University of Oxford), the Squire and Marriott Trust, the Kirby Laing Institute for Christian Ethics and the Crewdson Trust. I am also indebted to all those who, during my years at Oxford, participated in the postgraduate seminars in Christian Ethics (including the odd walk in the Cotswolds). Their contributions made these sessions a crucial component of my theological formation. In particular, I would like to thank the following friends and colleagues for their encouragement and intellectual input: James Mumford, Frank Curry, Sean Doherty, Josh Hordern, John Perry, Phil Lorish, Rob Heimburger, Chris Orton and Nick Townsend. A special word of thanks is due to my parents, Lucius and Syta, and to my long-standing friends Wilbert and Esther Dekker for their patient support over the years. I would like to thank Jeremy Worthen, the previous principal of the South East Institute for Theological Education, for his support and encouragement during the process of editing my thesis for publication. And I am deeply grateful to Kay Munn and David Barnes for proofreading my manuscript at different stages in the process: the text has improved a great deal as a result of their painstaking corrections and insightful comments. Finally, I would like to thank Bloomsbury T&T Clark for making this publication possible, and in particular Thomas Kraft and Anna Turton for their interest and advice.

Introduction

Friendship may seem an unusual subject of scholarly inquiry. As Alexander Nehamas observes: ‘However great and important its role in life, friendship has played at best a minor and incidental role in modern philosophical thought.’1 As a component of society’s fabric, friendship may be a rewarding topic for the social sciences.2 Yet judged by the standards of modern moral philosophy it seems too casual, too particular to deserve serious attention. A. W. Price complains that ‘modern moral philosophy has become obsessed with one’s obligations towards people one does not know’.3 But Nehamas and Price are hardly alone in lamenting this lack of serious attention. Similar complaints are being voiced in a steadily growing list of publications on friendship.4 If friendship was ever lost from the scholarly radar, then much is being done to make good for this loss. In fact, while the category of friendship may not sit as comfortably with modern philosophical concepts as with classical virtue ethics, it has never really disappeared from view altogether. Michael Pakaluk’s canon of essays on friendship, for example, features not only Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Seneca, Aelred and Aquinas, but also Montaigne, Bacon, Kant, Emerson and Kierkegaard.5 Of course, one might argue, from a classical point of view, that Kant underestimated the moral significance of friendship, or that Kierkegaard 1

2

3 4

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From ‘ “Because it was He, Because it was I”: Friendship and its Place in Life’ (Abstract), Gifford Lectures 2008. Robert D. Putnam, Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community (New York: Touchstone, 2000). For psychological studies, see, for example, Robert R. Bell, Worlds of Friendship (London: Sage, 1981). Steve Duck, Friends, for Life: The Psychology of Close Relationships (Brighton: Harvester Press, 1983). A. W. Price, Love and Friendship in Plato and Aristotle (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), p. 159. Cf., for example, John M. Cooper, ‘Aristotle on Friendship’, in Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics (ed. Amélie Oksenberg Rorty; London: University of California Press, 1980), pp. 301–40 (301). Suzanne SternGillet, Aristotle’s Philosophy of Friendship (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), p. 3. Paul D. O’Callaghan, The Feast of Friendship (Wichita, KS: Eighth Day Press, 2002), p. 10. Lorraine Smith Pangle, Aristotle and the Philosophy of Friendship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 1–6. Sandra Lynch, Philosophy and Friendship (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2005), pp. ix–x. Mark Vernon, The Philosophy of Friendship (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), pp. 8–9. Joel Backström, The Fear of Openness: An Essay on Friendship and the Roots of Morality (Åbo: Åbo Akademi University Press, 2007), p. 1. Daniel Schwartz, Aquinas on Friendship (Oxford Philosophical Monographs, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), p. vii. Michael Pakaluk (ed.), Other Selves: Philosophers on Friendship (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1991).

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was too critical of reciprocal love. Yet presumably these thinkers still found it worthwhile to reflect on the topic. This book, while engaging with philosophical contributions on the subject of friendship, aims to formulate a theological appreciation of it: it will ultimately focus on friendship as Christ’s gift to his disciples, and as a constitutive relationship between members of his body – the church. This theological focus does not in itself make the book stand out. On the contrary: in recent years several studies have appeared that explore friendship from a variety of theological angles.6 Indeed, the ecclesiological dimensions of friendship as a practice of Christian discipleship have already been explored at great depth by Steve Summers in his book Friendship (T&T Clark, 2009).7 While I seek to join a discussion initiated and enriched by other authors like Summers, my specific topic is the politics of and in friendship: the dynamics between friends on account of which friendship has been identified as bearing the seeds of civic and political relationships. And although my ultimate focus will be the church – as the alternative ‘polis’, existing alongside the secular powers yet witnessing to the Heavenly City – attention will also be given to the significance of friendship for (Christian) citizenship in secular society, or even participation in the political task of government. The ecclesial focus, in other words, is not meant to be exclusive, or to detract from questions of political ethics. The initial idea behind this study, which started as a doctoral thesis, was born while I was working on the first task my doctoral supervisor had given to me: to read Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, and write something sensible about  it. I remember being struck by Aristotle’s extensive treatment of friendship in Books VIII and IX of his Ethics. Particularly intriguing, and setting in motion the train of thought leading to this study, was Aristotle’s observation that ‘friendship appears to be the bond of the state’.8 Realities we are used to viewing as opposite poles of society – private and public – were here brought together with puzzling casualness. Soon I learned, of course, that my surprise said as much about latemodern culture, and its overly neat distinctions between private and public, as about classical politics or philosophy. Indeed, soon I learned that many 6

7

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Cf. Gilbert Meilaender, Friendship: A Study in Theological Ethics (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981). Paul Wadell, Friendship and the Moral Life (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1989). E. D. H. Carmichael, Friendship: Interpreting Christian Love (London: T&T Clark, 2004). Steve Summers, Friendship: Exploring its Implications for the Church in Postmodernity (ed. Gerard Mannion; Ecclesiological Investigations, vol. 7, London: T&T Clark, 2009). NE 1155a23. Translation taken from Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics (ed. Jeffrey Henderson; trans. H. Rackham; The Loeb Classical Library, vol. 73, Harvard: Harvard University Press, 1934), p. 453.

Introduction

3

contemporary scholars, in response to the anonymity of late-modern civic life, have sought to revive this classical idea: friends as fellow-citizens, fellow-citizens as friends.9 And it didn’t take long before the theological possibilities began to present themselves: if Aristotle’s ideal, despite the current enthusiasm, still proves unrealistic in the context of late-modern society, then might it not point more specifically to what the church is called to practise? Is Aristotle’s ideal of a polis sustained by friendship perhaps a pagan intimation of the Heavenly City – a political reality that the church is called to anticipate here and now? However, equally formative during my years of doctoral studies was the style of political theology and ethics taught by Prof. Oliver O’Donovan: a style that emphasizes the discontinuity between the political concepts of antiquity and the Christian tradition of political thought.10 In particular the Augustinian strand of that tradition challenges the classical idea that politics is ‘natural’, self-evidently part of human society or indeed the most complete expression of human sociality. For, from the perspective of the Fall (which necessitates God’s provisional containment of sin), and especially from the perspective of God’s ultimate judgement (which challenges human judgement), human political authority and practice become ambiguous. Indeed, the gospel exposes the rulers of the peoples as secular, belonging to the present age, to be superseded by the Kingdom of God and the rule of the Lamb. This eschatological emphasis, which plays a crucial role in O’Donovan’s political theology and ethics, cannot but call into question the classical idea of ‘civic’ or ‘political’ friendship. For underlying this  idea is an understanding of politics that gives it greater importance, prominence and permanence than Christian eschatology permits. Thus, on O’Donovan’s account of political and social realities, as expounded most exten­ sively in The Ways of Judgment (2005),11 friendship belongs to the sphere of society, or ‘social communications’: the sphere in which human sociality is realized in various degrees of privacy and publicity. Political practices, while taking place in society, are not to be understood as just one type of communication among others, but more specifically as aiming to preserve the integrity of these social communications. Social communications are worth engaging in for their own 9

10

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Cf. Peter Dennis and Nancy L. Schwartz Bathory (eds.), Friends and Citizens: Essays in Honor of Wilson Carey McWilliams (Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield, 2001). Preston King and Heather Devere (ed.), The Challenge to Friendship in Modernity (London: Frank Cass, 2000). James R. Martel, Love Is a Sweet Chain: Desire, Autonomy, and Friendship in Liberal Political Theory (London: Routledge, 2001). Cf. Oliver O’Donovan and Joan Lockwood O’Donovan, From Irenaeus to Grotius: A Sourcebook in Christian Political Thought (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), pp. 237–8. Oliver O’Donovan, The Ways of Judgment (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005).

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sake, human sociality being part of God’s creation and redeemed in Christ. The political task of government, on the other hand, is both instrumental and provisional: it defends rather than creates society, pronouncing judgement on any ‘wrong’ threatening to undermine society’s communications – pending the full social realization of God’s judgement in the Heavenly City. Politics is a function exhausting itself in this ‘temporal’ service to society. Society, on the other hand, does not exist for the sake of politics.12 To treat friendship as an inherently (semi-)political relationship, or search for political dynamics in friendship, would seem to obfuscate this theologically motivated distinction between social and political realities. Thus, the task of exploring friendship’s politics becomes more complicated, even ambivalent. Adding to the complexity is the fact that pre-Christian classical thought, such as that presented in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, remains a key source of inspiration for contemporary explorations of civic or political friendship.13 But from the theological perspective just outlined, Aristotle’s notion of civic friendship could be construed as a reification and idealization of what are only temporary ‘bonds of imperfection’14 – the institutions, practices and restrictions that maintain a modicum of peace and justice in secular society. Any theological discussion of friendship and politics, therefore, needs to address this challenge – as this study aims to do (among other things). Certainly, the broader revival of interest in friendship’s political significance is worth taking note of, if only because it may signal disillusionment with the individualist discourse of political liberalism. The language of friendship might be useful to late-modern society, stressing once again forms of sociality other than those based on contract and sustained by more than strictly individual interests. At the same time it should be noted that this turning back to classical political thought coincides with the end of Christendom (in the Western world at least), and particularly the demise of Christianity as a politically formative tradition.15 To that extent the revived quest for civic friendship may also be a quest for a secular alternative to the Heavenly City or, more immediately, to the church.16 12

13 14

15 16

Ibid., pp. 59–60, 134. Oliver O’Donovan, The Desire of the Nations: Rediscovering the Roots of Political Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 56–61, 193–242. See also Chapter 1. See Chapter 1, Section II. Oliver O’Donovan and Joan Lockwood O’Donovan, Bonds of Imperfection: Christian Politics, Past and Present (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004). Cf. O’Donovan, Desire of the Nations, pp. 271–84. For a similar suggestion concerning the revival of virtue ethics, see Stanley Hauerwas and Charles Pinches, Christians among the Virtues: Theological Conversations with Ancient and Modern Ethics (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), pp. 61–9.

Introduction

5

It is precisely this challenge that will be addressed in Chapter 1. Beginning with proposals for provisional descriptions of both friendship and politics, and a brief literature survey, I will then move on to consider a critique of the idea of civic friendship offered by the theologian and Christian ethicist Gilbert Meilaender. While taking seriously his objections to a theological appropriation of Aristotle’s ideal (in line with the considerations articulated above), I will never­theless suggest there is a way of exploring friendship’s political dimension that is not beholden to classical political idealism: one that not only relies on general reflections on friendship and politics, but also pays attention to specific examples of friends and disciples of Christ bearing responsibilities of citizenship – in the church as well as in political society. Throughout this study one particular story of friendship will function as a ‘case study’, both illustrating and guiding my exploration of friendship’s political nature. The case I have chosen is the friendship between Bishop George Bell of Chichester (England), and the German pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Their story, introduced in Chapter 2 as a reference point for subsequent discussion, is far from ordinary, unfolding as it did against the backdrop of increasing tension and hostility between their respective countries during the 1930s and 1940s. The sense of crisis hanging over their friendship does not make it any easier, of course, to extrapolate from their experiences. Nevertheless, Chapter 2 concludes with some initial observations about the political dimension of this unusual friendship – beyond, that is, its immediate political context. One particular episode from the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer will be identified as particularly significant in this respect, to be revisited in later chapters. Having thus sketched the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer in outline, I will seek to develop a more systematic account of friendship’s political characteristics in subsequent chapters. Which concepts are needed to articulate and clarify the political significance of a friendship such as that between Bell and Bonhoeffer? To what extent does their story also shed new light, or even correct, these systematic explorations? Chapter 3 constitutes the first step in this process, exploring the dynamic of ‘common action’ in friendship as well as in political society. The main texts engaged with are Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (Chapters VIII and XI) and Hannah Arendt’s The Human Condition, the latter facilitating a translation of key Aristotelian insights for a modern context. Notwithstanding the reservations articulated in Chapter 1 concerning the aspirations embodied in classical political philosophy, the aim will be to affirm in these texts whatever might help to interpret the political dimension of the friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer. The chapter will finish with the conclusion, however, that the

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concept of ‘common action’ is still too wide, failing to locate the ‘political’ in a sufficiently precise sense, distinguished from the ‘social’ or ‘public’. Following this conclusion, Chapter 4 considers judgement as a practice that is distinctly political. I will first show that the theme of judgement as a political act does in fact emerge in Arendt’s work, especially in essays following The Human Condition. I will then turn to Oliver O’Donovan for a more developed and theological theory of political judgement. His discussion of judgement will provide an account of emergency judgement, exercised (temporarily) by citizens rather than political officers – as Bell and Bonhoeffer arguably did at certain points. Nevertheless, it will be Arendt’s later reflections on judgement that will suggest how such extraordinary judgement might be exercised not just by individual citizens, but also jointly, in the context of friendship. Arendt’s (autobiographical) reflections on friendship in politically ‘dark times’ will be presented as illustrating this insight, in preparation for the discussion in Chapter 5. In Chapter 5 the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer is revisited more extensively, in the light of the themes discussed in Chapter 4. The focus will be on a secret meeting in Sweden, in 1942, between Bell, Bonhoeffer and four colleagues – an episode already highlighted in Chapter 2. Drawing on O’Donovan’s account of emergency judgement, and Arendt’s notion of judgement exercised jointly (including her depiction of friendship in ‘dark times’), it is argued that during this meeting the friends can be seen as jointly accepting responsibility in exercising political judgement. However, the same episode also invites a more subtle understanding of such common judgement: one that locates their judgement primarily (if not necessarily exclusively) in the gestures of repentance and forgiveness that were exchanged between them. Through these gestures Bell and Bonhoeffer, rather than assuming the secular office of judgement, deferred to and anticipated God’s judgement. In other words, their actions exemplified not simply political practice such as that championed by Arendt, but more specifically the political witness to which the church is called. This suggestion leads to an important shift in focus in Chapter 6, which examines friendship, and its possibilities for judgement, in the context of the church. To defer to God’s judgement is not to live without judgement, or to live without any political rule; yet rule in the church is different from secular rule. First of all, Jesus’ words in John 15.12–17 (in the wider of context of John 13–15, and several synoptic passages), suggest that his disciples are to live under the rule that is established through mutual service and submission: practices of friendship, established by Jesus’ gift of friendship to them. I will then argue that

Introduction

7

the same ‘friendly’ dynamic of mutual service and submission are hinted at in St Paul’s image of the body of Christ in Romans 12.1–8. Moreover, Paul suggests here that the church participates in God’s judgement through these very same practices – practices that, in the light of John 15, can be identified as practices of friendship. The picture emerging from John 15 and Romans 12, then, is of the church as a community based on and shaped by Christ’s gift of friendship, and of friendship as the ‘means’ by which the church exercises judgement. This picture, I will then argue, also helps in articulating the political significance of the friendship of Bell and Bonhoeffer, with particular reference to their interaction during the Sigtuna meeting. The final chapter seeks to highlight the unique political significance of friendship, as distinct from and in addition to the ‘friendly’ nature of the church in general. First, a comparison is made between the Sigtuna episode on the one hand, and the events surrounding the German churches’ Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt (1945) on the other. The comparison, I will argue, illustrates how friendship can help prevent the institutional church from succumbing to forms of politics that are in conflict with the body of Christ. In this case the temptation is exemplified in the attempt to ‘produce’ repentance and reconciliation through conventional political means. Secondly, the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer is taken to illustrate the significance of friendship in relation to individual Christians taking on exceptional political responsibility (as in emergency judgement). In Ethics Bonhoeffer emphasizes that such responsibility needs to be understood as secondary to and dependent on Christ’s responsibility towards humanity. In the light of the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer I will suggest that friendship, and its element of mutual accountability in particular, can help in keeping responsibility rooted in its Christological basis. In other words, friendship might prevent political action from assuming an unhelpful ‘heroic’ glow. In the concluding Section I will seek to summarize the findings of this study, partly by commenting on a remark by Stanley Hauerwas about friendship, church and politics. Most of these chapters can be read as relatively independent essays. Chapter 2 (especially Sections I and II) provides a stand-alone account of the friendship between George Bell and Dietrich Bonhoeffer – within the context of the German church struggle and the emergence of ecumenical movement, as well as the rise of Nazism and World War II. Readers interested in key themes of Christian political theology and ethics may find Chapters 1, 6 and 7 particularly useful. Chapter 3 (especially Sections I and II), though part of a larger argument, can be read as an essay on the role of shared activity in Aristotle’s and Hannah Arendt’s political thought. In a similar fashion, Chapter 4 engages with the

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concept of political judgement in the works of Arendt and O’Donovan. Chapter 6 (especially Sections I and II) will interest those keen to engage with friendship as a dimension of Christian discipleship and church community. Finally, those interested in Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s theology (as well as his life story) might wish to turn to Chapter 7 (Section II). Nevertheless, these chapters do comprise a single explorative exercise, each building on the findings of the preceding ones. The overall aim is to establish the political significance of friendship, specifically in the context of and from the perspective of the political community that is the church. Another binding factor, of course, not unrelated to this aim, is the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer. The reader will find that this story functions as somewhat more than an example, or even a case study. This book could be read as an extended commentary on their friendship: one that seeks to highlight its significance for reflection on friendship in relation to civil society and politics, drawing on a rather eclectic variety of sources, yet ultimately aiming to give voice to the Christian witness embodied by this ‘political friendship’. Finally, this study has been profoundly shaped by two of my teachers: Bernd Wannenwetsch, my doctoral supervisor, and Oliver O’Donovan. The influence of the former is perhaps less visible than that of the latter, at least on the surface of my argument. Yet the overall approach of the subject and the methods of inquiry owe much to Wannenwetsch’s wisdom. First of all, it was he who introduced me to Arendt (as well as Aristotle), showing me the fecundity of her work with regard to my topic. But he also encouraged me to give more weight to a particular story of friendship, allowing it to function as more than just an example or illustration. Indeed, it was he who introduced me to the case of Bell and Bonhoeffer. Due to its immediate dramatic appeal, their story could easily have hijacked the project. But the interrogation of their story, alongside and in dialogue with more conceptual explorations, certainly made the exercise a great deal more fascinating, bringing the topic ‘to life’, so to speak. Indeed, I believe it has made this study both richer and more realistic in its conclusions, as well as more theological. O’Donovan’s influence on this study is more explicit, his name appearing more often in both the main text and the footnotes. Given my formation in Christian political thought, this present study could only have been written in conversation with his seminal writings in political theology and ethics. More specifically, a work standing on the horizon of much of my argument in this study is O’Donovan’s aforementioned The Ways of Judgment. In the course of reflecting on friendship and its political dimension, the concept of judgement emerged as a relevant and fruitful theme. While this did not happen independently from

Introduction

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reading O’Donovan’s book, inspiration had come from other quarters as well (including Arendt’s political writings). But given its focus on judgement as the core of political practice (and given its theological scope), The Ways of Judgment has functioned as a prime resource in thinking through and testing intuitions about friendship’s political character. Taking direction from this book, however, did not make the task any easier. As I explained above, O’Donovan’s political ethics seems to leave little room for the notion that friendship (or indeed any component of social life) might be ‘political’ in any structural sense – that is, beyond historical coincidences between friendship and political engagement. Yet, as this introduction already suggests, an important challenge for me in pursuing this project has been to explore to what extent intuitions about friendship’s political nature might be reconciled with and accommodated within the perspective that is characteristic of O’Donovan’s political theology and ethics (and which I, too, consider fundamental to a theological understanding of political society). It is this challenge that drives much of my argument in the book. Its ultimate focus on the church as a community of friends may not be original, yet in the context of this study it serves as the key to answering that particular challenge.

1

Friendship and Politics: Initial Explorations

In this chapter I will introduce the main topic of the book and propose a method for exploring it. The aim here is to put down some markers concerning key terms, the particular focus to be taken and the specific method to be adopted. In speaking of ‘friendship’ and ‘politics’, what exactly do we have in mind? And in seeking to link these two, what kind of connections might be established? Which ways of investigating such connections are available, and which would be appropriate for a theological study? Discussion of these and similar questions should help the reader find some initial bearings, before the discussion moves on to address more specific issues in subsequent chapters. The first section will establish provisional descriptions of both ‘friendship’ and ‘politics’. Section II will offer a sample of scholarly explorations of the relation between friendship and politics, critiquing some of the approaches taken in these studies, and presenting an alternative approach to the nexus of friendship and politics. The final section will consider particularly theological explorations of the main topic, including Gilbert Meilaender’s theological critique of the ideal of ‘civic friendship’. While upholding Meilaender’s rejection of classical political idealism, it will argue that a political analysis of friendship need not fall victim to such idealism. The chapter will conclude with an outline of the trajectory of inquiry to be taken in subsequent chapters.

I  Descriptions At this stage, the task of defining the key terms in this study – friendship and politics – can only be provisional. Given this book’s topic, and the somewhat counterintuitive pairing of these two terms, it is only to be expected that conventional descriptions and definitions will be questioned and challenged. Nevertheless, one has to start with something. What is presented here is precisely that: a starting point, to be revisited and supplemented in subsequent chapters.

Politics in Friendship

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Friendship As with other all-too familiar phenomena, it is not so easy to describe or define friendship. Some wonder whether friendship can be defined at all.1 Indeed, one might ask whether in this context the attempt to ‘define’ is a good idea in the first place – as if we could ever ‘pin down’ something as varied and lively as friendship. As soon as we begin to reflect on what characterizes or constitutes friend­ ship, a multitude of perspectives immediately presents itself. Is friendship about the sheer pleasure of spending time together, for example, or does it require a shared interest or purpose? Such questions will be discussed in Chapter 3, and it would be premature to try and answer them in detail here. What can be established at this point, however, is the basic ‘dynamic’ of friendship. It seems fair to say that in order to have friendship at all, there needs to be reciprocity: some level of mutuality in love, in effort, in enjoyment of the other’s company. In classical Greek the word for ‘friendship’, jilίa, can also be translated as ‘love’, as it is directly related to the verb ‘to love’ (jilέw). Thus, at a strictly semantic level, friendship could be considered as roughly synonymous to ‘goodwill’ (eὔnoia); that is, a form of love or affection that can remain unilateral. Nevertheless, as Aristotle points out, ‘only when mutual is such goodwill termed friendship’.2 And then there is the issue of number. It seems a relationship of two friends is usually regarded to be the paradigm of friendship. However, while this may reflect much of our friendship experience, there is no reason to exclude groups larger than two. C. S. Lewis makes the interesting observation that the presence of a third person enhances the experience and enjoyment of the other.3 However well I may know my friend, another (mutual) friend of ours will draw out aspects from her that I would never have discovered on my own; and yet, through this third friend, these aspects have become part of my friendship with her as well. To say that friendship might consist of more than two friends is already to go some way in answering the question as to whether friendship belongs to the 1

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Cf. Joel Backström, The Fear of Openness: An Essay on Friendship and the Roots of Morality (Åbo: Åbo Akademi University Press, 2007), p. 4. Mark Vernon, The Philosophy of Friendship (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), p. 5. For a list of characteristics, see Steve Summers, Friendship. Exploring its Implications for the Church in Postmodernity (ed. Gerard Mannion; Ecclesiological Investigations, vol. 7, London: T&T Clark, 2009), pp. 70–1. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics (ed. Jeffrey Henderson; trans. H. Rackham; The Loeb Classical Library, vol. 73, Harvard: Harvard University Press, 1934), p. 457. Lewis writes, paraphrasing Charles Lamb: ‘if, of three friends (A, B, and C), A should die, then B loses not only A but A’s part in C, while C loses not only A but A’s part in B’. C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves (London: HarperCollins, 2002), p. 74.

Friendship and Politics: Initial Explorations

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private or the public sphere (a question to be addressed below, in Sections II and III). Of course, a group of friends is not the same as a city, a people, a nation or indeed a political community. Yet Lewis’s observation at least suggests that in the case of friendship the boundary between the private and public spheres are not as clear-cut as it is sometimes made out to be.4 Related to the question of number is the issue of gender. Friendship often is a relationship between people of the same sex. Yet, again, there seems to be no reason to disqualify ‘mixed’ friendships, especially when these involve more than two friends. Certainly, it would be naïve to ignore the fact that when a man and a woman befriend each other, the possibility of sexual union immediately presents itself on the horizon – if only in the eyes of society. (And in modern Western societies, of course, this is the case for friends of the same sex as well, especially if they consider themselves homosexual.) But then, sexual union doesn’t exclude friendship; a marriage worth its name would be deficient if not based on and sustained by friendship. Indeed, marriage is open to other ‘friends’, though not in the same way as non-sexual friendships. First of all, the friendship between lovers is extended when children arrive on the scene, sharing in and transforming the couple’s friendship. Friendship expands to become a family, which, in turn, is typically the primary context for children to learn how to participate in society. Families also welcome guests, who not only facilitate this transition from family to society, but often also become family friends – a further ‘ring’ of friendship, distinct from yet responsive to the intimate friendship of the spouses and the familial bonds between parents and children.5 Thus we glimpse a complex sphere of overlapping relationships, a nexus of friendship, sexual union and family. And while the topics of sexuality and family fall outside the scope of this book, it is worth noting at this point how identifying this nexus confirms the suggestion made earlier about friendship straddling the boundary between the private and public spheres: whereas sexual union itself is intimate and therefore private, it nevertheless allows for a form of friendship that can grow into a larger, socializing family unit, and as such (with or without children) become a meeting place for a larger circle of friends: a ‘home’ within society. On the basis of these initial observations regarding friendship, the following (admittedly loose) description is suggested: friendship is a relationship based on mutual affection that involves two or more people. 4

5

For an account that places friendship exclusively in the private sphere of intimacy, see Backström, Fear of Openness. Cf. Brent Waters, The Family in Christian Social and Political Thought (ed. Oliver O’Donovan; Oxford Studies in Theological Ethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 192–229.

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Politics In seeking to establish a description of politics, one perhaps needs to apply even more caution than in the case of friendship. The concept of politics is even less concrete than friendship. Friendship may be difficult to describe, yet here at least we can say that ‘we know it when we see it’. After all, friends are particular persons whom we can point out and talk to; indeed, we ourselves are invariably friends of someone. Politics, by contrast, is a process taking place between people; instead of denoting a particular thing or phenomenon, it names a wide variety of human ‘affairs’. It is no surprise, therefore, that ‘politics’ is used to describe phenomena as diverse as parliamentary elections, power struggles and moral debates. Similarly, issues ranging from church establishment to childcare provision can be labelled ‘political’. Nevertheless, certain boundaries can and must be drawn between politics and other social affairs. What follows is a rough sketch of how these boundaries might be drawn. A key source here is Oliver O’Donovan’s discussion of similar themes in The Ways of Judgment.6 Yet the following sketch is phrased in as general terms as possible, in order to avoid preempting the discussion in subsequent chapters. Politics constitute a dimension of public affairs, yet not all public affairs are political. For public affairs to be identified as ‘political’, they must involve a moment of decision concerning the shape of public life in society as a whole. There are many ways of being involved in and shaping public life, such as through family life, commerce, art, education and religion. These are undertakings of an ongoing nature, and could be identified as broadly ‘voluntary’. Yet there are moments when certain questions need to be settled concerning the integrity of social life as it is made up of all these interlocking projects together, and which cannot be left to either of these sectors or their corresponding communities. These questions need to be settled not only for the sake of, but also on behalf of, an entire community – and visibly so, through public officials.7 It is here that we encounter the specifically political sphere of public life. And the core of this sphere consists in government; that is, government in its broad, verbal sense (the task of governance), and not only in the sense of, say, a cabinet of ministers (‘the’ government). The political task of government by definition concerns the life of an entire political community or society. Even in areas where government involves decisions on very specific issues (e.g., drugs 6

7

Oliver O’Donovan, The Ways of Judgment (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), pp. 3–12, 52–66. Cf. Introduction. Cf. Ibid., pp. 10–11.

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15

regulation), or particular cases (e.g., extradition), the authority with which it does so derives from society as a whole. More precisely, it derives from society’s ‘common good’, which is to be upheld in these cases.8 And this is why government action has a finality that other public undertakings lack: since government (again, in its broadest sense) acts on behalf of society as a whole, its measures are binding; once a law has been made, or a judgement given, citizens are not free to ‘take it or leave it’. Indeed, a society shows its political character in recognizing and living under a shared system of government, to which all other forms of administration and governance are ultimately answerable (e.g., trusts, companies or societies). The task of government could be further specified as providing justice.9 It is the need for a public answer to injustice – either in the form of prosecution and punishment, or rather preventative measures – that most clearly establishes political authority. Now, the provision of justice comes of course in a variety of sub-tasks, including administration, legislation, law-enforcement, prosecution and adjudication. In most developed societies these tasks, often classified under the broad headings of ‘executive’, ‘legislative’ and ‘judiciary’, are assigned to corresponding institutions. Contemporary political scientists might balk at the proposal to conceive of these three tasks as together constituting the task of ‘government’. Yet it is not difficult to see that the three ‘branches’ are interdependent. Indeed, each task would lose not just its authority but its very rationale if it were no longer understood as contributing to the overall task sketched earlier: safeguarding the integrity of public life in society. The task of government usually involves more than the provision of justice, such as economic planning and the building of infrastructure. While such undertakings are certainly public in nature, they do not necessarily pose questions of justice – that is, questions concerning the integrity of public life. A road building project, for example, is certainly for the benefit of society, to be used by ‘the public’ (even when funded ‘privately’). Yet government need not be involved in such projects – unless, of course, the planning process raises questions of justice. Once the proposed route cuts through private property, government cannot stay out of the process: questions of expropriation may only be settled politically (by ‘the State’). And even if questions of justice do not arise, governments engage in public projects with an authority that other

8 9

The notion of the ‘common good’ will be discussed in more detail below, in Section III. O’Donovan uses the term ‘judgement’ to define the task of government; cf. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 3. See also Chapters 4 and 5.

16

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bodies lack, and which they have on account of their judicial authority within society.10 This characterization of the political task should help in clarifying the various levels of political processes, including those beyond the sphere of government. We already saw that the task of government itself divides into different ‘branches’. There is first ‘a’ government, nowadays typically consisting of a head of state plus a number of ministers – often elected ‘professional’ politicians. A government typically operates within the context of a parliament, the ‘legislative’, which also typically (if not exclusively) consists of professional politicians, whose task is to contribute to government deliberation, and propose and ratify the laws through which society is governed. Then there is the vast apparatus (in developed societies, at least) of civil servants, which, although not directly involved in political decision-making and legislation, are nonetheless the instrument through which much of governance takes place. The process of deliberation informing legislation and government policy could not take place without the expert contribution of civil servants. But then there is the less specific political role of society more broadly. In a parliamentary democracy, society’s contribution is ideally channelled through parliament, given the latter’s representative function. But even apart from such parliamentary mediation, there are several ways in which normal citizens contribute to the political process. As O’Donovan points out, their contribution begins with the conformity implied in day-to-day law-abiding behaviour. This is then complemented by arguments, debates and elections, through which citizens ‘take responsibility for the public order’. The views expressed in such contexts are intended, he explains, ‘to contribute to a judgment made on behalf of the public’, even though they ‘stop short of actually effecting such a judgment’.11 The upshot of these observations is that, while we can identify politics as a specific sphere of action within society, uniquely devoted to the public provision of justice, there are nevertheless several levels at which citizens can be involved in politics. To put it rather crudely: one need not be a politician in order to be involved in politics, even if only relatively few are involved in the core political 10

11

Quite how central the judicial aspect of government is, or should be, is an issue of debate between O’Donovan and other moral theologians. See, for example, Nigel Biggar, ‘On Defining Political Authority as an Act of Judgment: A Discussion of Oliver O’Donovan’s The Ways of Judgment (Part I)’, Political Theology 9:3 (2008), pp. 273–93 (282–3). Nicholas Townsend, ‘Government and social infrastructure’, in God and Government (ed. Nick Spencer and Jonathan Chaplin; London: SPCK, 2009), pp. 108–33 (121). O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 10.

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17

tasks of government. Hence, let me venture the following description: politics denotes the processes involved in the task of government, and, by derivation, those processes that contribute to that task.

II  Choosing a perspective Having offered a description of both friendship and politics, let me now consider some ways in which these phenomena might be explored in relation to each other. There are at least three levels at which friendship and politics might be seen to touch each other. First, and most obviously, one could look at the role of friendship and/or particular friendships in places of power, such as Westminster and Washington. Here one might investigate the role played by friendship in professional politics, influencing formal and informal coalitions, and so forth. A second approach would be to focus on politics in a much broader sense, including the life of a political community as a whole, and ask to what extent civic life is, could or should be ‘like’ friendship – or at least have ‘friendly’ characteristics. And, finally, one could stay closer to friendship in its common, more personal manifestation (as described above), asking to what extent politics can already be seen to enter this kind of relationship; or indeed, whether this relationship itself is somehow already of a political nature. The first approach would involve the description and interpretation of friendship in political contexts, or particular cases of friendly relations between politicians (Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher, for example). The appropriate genres for this sort of study are journalism, biography and political history. It is no doubt a fascinating topic, and indeed this book will contain a fair amount of biography (if not of professional politicians).12 However, the focus of this study is primarily on the extent to which such accounts can illumine the nature of friendship and politics more generally (rather than, e.g., a particular period of political history), and draw out the connections between the two. What does this or that ‘political friendship’ reveal about, say, the nature of political action, civic relations or the dynamics of friendship? It is conceptual questions such as these that will be at the heart of this study. Whenever the book focuses on the stories of particular friends, it will be in order to answer these questions as well. Yet this still leaves us with two possible approaches, equally conceptual in nature: to examine either whether civic relations are ‘like friendship’, or the 12

See Chapter 2.

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extent to which friendship itself is ‘political’. Now, especially when phrased in this way, these questions might seem almost identical, only articulated from different points of view – that is, from the perspectives of politics and friendship respectively. Yet this is only partly correct. As should already be evident from the discussion above, friendship and politics are hardly comparable (sets of) phenomena. The former consists of a relationship between particular people. The latter, however, as we have seen, includes not only certain types of relationships (e.g., ‘political community’, civic relations) but a wide variety of other phenomena as well (e.g., practices, processes, organizations, institutions). Friendship has a more restricted locality compared to politics; friendship is where friends are, whereas politics pervades society (in its broadest sense at least). Thus it is easier to imagine politics ‘entering’ the life of friendship than to imagine friendship (and not just particular friends) ‘entering’ politics. And whenever friendship does enter politics, then (unless it involves a particular ‘political friendship’ such as between Reagan and Thatcher) it is not likely to take place at the level of government, or political community as a whole, but again rather within the sphere of friendship itself – in the form, perhaps, of politically relevant acts. The relationship between friendship and politics, then, cannot be easily construed as one of analogy. This is not to say that we cannot explore this relationship from both perspectives. On the contrary: investigating how political processes draw on the experiences of friendships, and how friendship might contain certain seeds for political action, are complementary avenues of inquiry. However, to investigate whether civic relations are ‘like friendship’ – the second of the three approaches identified above – is to ask a rather different question. Here one selects a particular political phenomenon (e.g., civic relations), and examines whether this might involve a distinct, political type of friendship – or a political analogue  – which might then be labelled ‘civic friendship’. Again, this may present a fascinating topic in itself, an interesting way of reflecting on how to understand and fashion the bonds that tie us into the political communities to which we belong. However, the obvious question that emerges here is whether we are still dealing with friendship; that is, friendship in the more ordinary sense discussed earlier. This point can be illustrated with reference to a few articles published in 2007 in Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy,13 all of which 13

See Preston King and Graham M. Smith, ‘Introduction’, Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 10:2 (2007), pp. 117–23.

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19

examine the relation between friendship and politics. A number of authors are interested in the civic type of friendship just hinted at. Sybil Schwarzenbach, for example, argues for the need to foster ‘civic friendship’ as an ethos that in turn is a prerequisite for developing the practice of ‘public care’.14 Schwarzenbach’s proposal seems rather idealistic, and even statist.15 Yet apart from such concerns her article raises a more basic question concerning her use of the term friendship. What is gained in speaking of civic friendship here if more conventional terms such as ‘civil society’, ‘citizenship’ or ‘civic virtue’ seem to do just as well, if not better? In Schwarzenbach’s case this question becomes all the more pressing when, in seeking to describe civic friendship, she takes recourse to concepts such as constitution, law, social practices and even ‘the doctrine (and culture) of universal individual rights’.16 Describing civic friendship in explicitly political vocabulary, she has barely begun to consider friendship in its own right: as a relationship distinct (if not separate) from civic relations. Nor indeed does she consider how friendship might inform or even challenge common understandings of civic relations. The approach taken by Preston King looks more promising in this respect. Instead of starting off with a concept of friendship that is already heavily freighted with political baggage, he begins by listing ten aspects of friendship that are at least significant from a political point of view.17 Among these are the fact that friendship is primarily reciprocal (in contrast to the largely ‘unilateral’ relations between fellow-citizens); the fact that friendships involve forms of equality that are similar though not identical to political forms of equality; and the fact that even in friendship unanimity is not only unrealistic but even undesirable. However, when King seeks to formulate friendship’s political significance in a more systematic sense, he resorts to the notion of ‘friendliness’: an attitude that, as King explains, is learned in friendship yet which, entailing a more generalized and less intimate form of affection, is not friendship itself.18 In other words, friendship is stronger than political relations, while political relations are more inclusive than friendship. The same logic

14

15

16 17

18

Sybil A. Schwarzenbach, ‘Civic Friendship: A Critique of Recent Care Theory’, Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 10:2 (2007), pp. 233–55. Though inspired by Aristotle’s notion of ‘civic friendship’, Schwarzenbach’s specific proposals are reminiscent Plato’s Republic, such as taking the task of child-rearing away from parents and giving it to public care centres instead; Ibid., p. 249. Ibid., p. 237. Preston King, ‘Friendship in Politics’, Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 10:2 (2007), pp. 125–45. Ibid., pp. 134–5, 142–5.

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is suggested by Evert Van der Zweerde, another contributor: characterizing Aristotle’s notion of ‘political friendship’ (jilίa politikὴ), he stipulates that it must be ‘a weakened and generalizable form of friendship of virtue: it must include all citizens’.19 Following this logic, then, we can only identify friendly characteristics, ‘distilled’ from friendship proper and then ‘applied’ to familiar civic and politic phenomena – or used in order to trace political ‘analogues’ (which is King’s approach).20 Yet, again, one is left wondering whether connections aren’t made too quickly, smoothing over differences between friendship and political community, perhaps even differences that suggest less obvious yet possibly more significant points of contact. The question, then, is whether an exclusive focus on civic friendship, as a distinct kind of friendship (i.e., distinct from friendship in the ordinary sense discussed earlier), might in fact close off a line of inquiry in which understanding of politics is genuinely informed by friendship. At its worst, the above approach amounts to a mere dressing up of political concepts in terms derived from friendship, which will fail to contribute to, let alone challenge, our understanding of either. Indeed, one might doubt whether investigating analogies between friendship and political relations will be helpful at all, that is, helpful in exploring the political significance of friendship – rather than something that vaguely resembles it. This study, given its focus on ordinary friendship as well as political relationships, will follow the third approach identified earlier: to explore the extent to which politics takes place in friendship, as experienced and practised among particular friends. (As suggested earlier, this topic will inevitably overlap with the complementary one of politics touching on the life of friends.) To choose this approach is certainly not to denounce projects that explore the concept of civic friendship. In fact, insofar as the latter bears some resemblance to that of ‘politics in friendship’, this concept will inevitably appear on the horizon of the discussion in this study. Yet it will be from the perspective of friendship simpliciter that it will be considered. And thus at the forefront will not be questions about, say, the numerical gap between a typical friendship (relatively few friends) and political communities (many fellow-citizens), but rather questions about the specific dynamics, acts and practices on account of which friendship might be said to involve politics.

19

20

Evert Van der Zweerde, ‘Friendship and the Political’, Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 10:2 (2007), pp. 147–65 (161). For a similar approach, see Jürgen Gebhardt, ‘Friendship, Trust, and Political Order: A Critical Overview’, in Friendship & Politics (ed. John von Heyking and Richard Avramenko; Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 2008), pp. 315–47.

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Exactly what these ‘dynamic, acts and practices’ entail, and in what sense they are politically significant, is of course a key question to be explored in subsequent chapters. At this point, however, it might be useful to highlight at least a few general perspectives in identifying aspects of friendship as political, or politically significant. First, one might identify the dynamics of friendship as somehow parallel to political processes. In contrast to the notion of analogy, parallelism suggests historical and/or social proximity in addition to mere resemblance. Thus, for example, friendship might be identified not only as resembling a political community in certain aspects, but also as functioning alongside it – or perhaps even as providing certain conditions for its very existence. The latter, in fact, already goes beyond the notion of mere parallelism, involving as it does the suggestion that friendship somehow offers support to a political community, or to its political processes. For example, in friendship we find the unique combination of affection, common interests, candidness and indeed mutual challenge that in politics is as rare as it is necessary. Bolder still would be to suggest that, because of this, we find in friendship the beginning (or at least ‘a’ beginning) of political dynamics; perhaps one that is even indispensable for the continued existence of a political community and its governance. These three perspectives are all compatible with the observation made earlier concerning the multi-layered meaning of ‘politics’ (Section II); namely, that ‘politics’, while strictly speaking involving the task of government, can also be taken to denote processes within a political community as a whole that contribute to that task. The three perspectives are different in that they identify friendship as a sphere of politics in different measures. The claim that friendship entails a beginning of politics, for example, is stronger than the claim that friendship involves support to political processes – which, in turn, is stronger than the claim that friendship is a ‘parallel’ phenomenon. Nevertheless, what they have in common is that they show friendship as something one might label ‘parapolitical’; as something that is political insofar as it exists alongside politics in a significant sense.21 The term ‘parapolitical’ will be used through this book, as 21

The term ‘parapolitical’ was suggested to me by Prof. Hans Ulrich, Emeritus Professor in Theological Ethics, University of Erlangen-Nuremberg. The Greek-English Lexicon by Liddell and Scott (Oxford University Press, 9th edn) offers the following meanings for the Greek prefix parά: (with accusative) ‘by the side of ’; (with dative) ‘beside, near, by’; ‘along’; ‘past, beyond’. For composite words including this prefix, it lists the following: ‘alongside of, beside’; ‘to the side of, to’; ‘to one side of, by, past’; ‘(metaph.) aside, beyond’. The Oxford English Dictionary (2nd edn) describes the meaning of ‘para-’ as follows: ‘Forming miscellaneous terms in the sense “analogous or parallel to, but separate from or going beyond, what is denoted by the root word”.’ As examples it mentions parafiscal, ‘ancillary to what is fiscal; containing elements not usually regarded as fiscal’; paragnosis, ‘knowledge which is beyond that which can be obtained by normal means’; and indeed parapolitical, ‘existing parallel to, or outside, the sphere of mainstream (esp. national) politics’.

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it conveniently covers various perspectives on the political nature of friendship, including the ones just identified. With this focus on friendship in its ordinary sense, however, the task of exploring friendship’s political significance has not become any easier. With an analogical concept such as ‘civic friendship’, at least, one has already attained a level of generalization and abstraction. Friendship simpliciter, however, comes in many shapes and forms. Indeed, what is friendship apart from particular friends, and friends’ particular stories? It is already at this point, then, that a narrative approach to our topic presents itself as inevitable (though more will be said about that towards the end of this chapter). An interesting example of such an approach can be found in an article by Nina Witoszek that is also published in the aforementioned issue of Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy.22 Witoszek writes about the 14 Polish friends who together formed the Committee for Workers’ Defence (KOR), a group that preceded and prepared for the better-known Solidarity Movement. Her article stands out from the others insofar as it refrains from speculations about civic friendship, or political analogues of friendship. Instead, she pays attention to a very particular story of friendship, an approach that allows for some interesting insights concerning the political dynamic within this group of friends. Witsoszek observes, for example, that with their ‘ceaseless argument in all spheres’ the friends were in fact citizens in a ‘dialogic democracy’,23 thus posing a challenge to the oppressive politics of Poland’s communist regime. This book will seek to emulate this example of a narrative-led approach, using a particular story to guide and inform its exploration of politics in friendship. Before this story can be introduced, however, another preliminary issue needs to be addressed: the specifically theological dimension of this topic. This issue is in fact rather more complex than the questions addressed so far, and thus requires a lengthier discussion.

III  Friends in earthly cities In what light does the link between friendship and politics appear when looked at from a theological perspective? Are there specifically theological arguments in 22

23

Nina Witoszek, ‘Friendship and Revolution in Poland: The Eros and Ethos of the Committee for Workers’ Defense (KOR)’, Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 10:2 (2007), pp. 215–31. Ibid., pp. 215, 227.

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favour of, or perhaps rather against, making this link? In order to examine some of the topics implied by these questions, this section will begin by considering a number of essays on friendship and politics, written from explicitly theological perspectives.

Two traditions of Christian political thought Another collection of relevant essays has been published as a book, under the straightforward title Friendship & Politics.24 Unlike the journal referred to earlier, this book also includes a number of explicitly theological contributions. Two essays – by Jeanne Schindler and John von Heyking respectively – are of special interest here. Like the authors discussed above, both Schindler and Von Heyking focus on a distinctly civic type of friendship. While friendship of this type is not the main topic of this study, their essays nevertheless provide useful examples of theological engagement with friendship in relation to politics. Schindler and Von Heyking are both optimistic about the possibilities of conceiving political relations in terms of friendship. From a historical perspective at least, this optimism is worth noticing, given the fact (acknowledged by Schindler and Von Heyking) that Christianity has often favoured familial language over friendship language, and the fact that, following the New Testament, it has tended to place universal, sacrificial love (‘agape’) above the reciprocal dynamics of friendship.25 However, there are precedents for a more positive Christian and/ or theological appreciation of friendship, most famously in the work of Thomas Aquinas. The latter is indeed the major source of inspiration to Schindler.26 As for Aquinas himself, he incorporated much of Aristotle’s ethics into his writings, using Aristotle’s account of friendship as a framework for interpreting charity – love of neighbour and of God.27 Aquinas’s reliance on Aristotle, however, is not wholly uncontroversial from a theological point of view. Aristotle, as we will see later, viewed the political community, the polis, as the most perfect human community – like friendship, 24

25

26 27

John Von Heyking and Richard Avramenko, Friendship & Politics: Essays in Political Thought (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008). Jeanne Heffernan Schindler, ‘A Companionship of Caritas: Friendship in St. Thomas Aquinas’, in Friendship and Politics (ed. John von Heyking and Richard Avramenko; Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 2008), pp. 139–62 (143). Cf. Gilbert Meilaender, Friendship: A Study in Theological Ethics (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981), pp. 1–2. Schindler, ‘A Companionship of Caritas’. For an extensive analysis of the theme of friendship in Aquinas’s work, see also Daniel Schwartz, Aquinas on Friendship (Oxford Philosophical Monographs, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007).

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but then more complete. Now, one might theologically justify this emphasis by pointing to the literally ‘political’ character of New Testament eschatology, particularly in the image of the Heavenly Jerusalem in the book of Revelation (Rev. 22.9–27). That is to say: Aristotle, the pagan philosopher, may have been mistaken in seeking perfect human community in earthly cities (rather than expecting it from heaven), yet he wasn’t wrong in seeking it. However, this approach arguably risks smoothing over the differences and even rivalries between earthly cities and the Heavenly Jerusalem – differences and rivalries that are also part of the picture in Revelation, perhaps more than anywhere else in Scripture. These differences and rivalries are the central theme of Augustine’s magnum opus The City of God, written in a tradition of Christian political thought older than that of Aquinas, a tradition more acutely aware of the fact that, after all, Christ died at the hands of political authorities.28 Where the Thomist tradition sees a continuum between the desires, goals and governing principles of the earthly and heavenly communities respectively, the Augustinian tradition sees discontinuity and even conflict.29 Indeed, whereas the former regards human political communities and their administrative and judicial institutions as part of the natural created order, the latter tends to see these institutions (if not necessarily their corresponding communities) as a necessary evil, or at least a provisional remedy against the consequences of the Fall.30 Such skepticism is absent from Schindler’s discussion of civic friendship, which is no surprise given that Aquinas is her guide. From an Augustinian perspective, however, this notion must be ambiguous, at the very least, if not deeply problematic: how we can be friends of earthly cities as well as the City of God?31 Von Heyking’s approach is different from Schindler’s in that, while discussing broadly the same concept (‘political community as an analogy of friendship’32), he is actually drawing on Augustine’s writings. Oddly enough, however, what he claims to find in Augustine is rather similar to Schindler’s Thomist ideal. Von Heyking aims to reconstruct from Augustine’s writings an account of 28 29

30

31 32

Meilaender, Friendship, p. 76. ‘Thomas minimized the spiritual distance between “prelapsarian” and “postlapsarian” communities and institutions, so weaving social life into a unified moral legal texture.’ Oliver O’Donovan and Joan Lockwood O’Donovan, From Irenaeus to Grotius: A Sourcebook in Chrtistian Political Thought (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), p. 238. Cf. Schindler, ‘A Companionship of Caritas’, p. 154. John Von Heyking, ‘The Luminous Path of Friendship: Augustine’s Account of Friendship and Political Order’, in Friendship & Politics (ed. John von Heyking and Richard Avramenko; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), pp. 115–38 (118–19). Cf. Heb. 13.14. Von Heyking, ‘The Luminous Path of Friendship’, p. 117.

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political community that resembles his understanding of friendship. He also points out that in regarding friendship and political community as analogical realities, Augustine is paying tribute to Cicero.33 Now, while Augustine indeed draws on Cicero’s definitions of friendship and political community (or rather populus, ‘people’), what Von Heyking doesn’t mention is that Augustine does so  in a polemical manner.34 Von Heyking refers to certain passages in Augustine’s writings to support his claim that Augustine has a positive view of temporal government. This argument begs the question, however, depending as it does on the assumption that Augustine considers the City of God to be the proper ‘analogate’ of both friendship and earthly political communities – which  is precisely the point to be demonstrated. What is being sidestepped here, it seems, is the eschatological tension between Kingdom of God (including the church as its anticipation) and earthly cities. Again, in what sense can  Christians practise civic friendship while awaiting the Heavenly Jerusalem?35

An Augustinian objection: Gilbert Meilaender We must look elsewhere to experience the full force of the Augustinian challenge to classical understandings of political life, including the role of friendship. In Chapter 4 of his Friendship: A Study in Theological Ethics, Gilbert Meilaender mounts an attack on the notion of civic friendship: the ideal of ‘the political bond as one of civic friendship’.36 Note that his target is this particular ideal, rather than other ways of making connections between friendship and politics. Nevertheless, as we will see, his main objection is likely to apply to these other conceptions as well, and therefore his critique is worth considering in relation to this study. In fact, Meilaender’s misgivings betray certain assumptions about friendship and the political realm that, as we will see, are not beyond criticism themselves. Yet at the heart of his argument stands a classical Augustinian objection that, from a theological point of view, is not to be easily dismissed, and therefore needs to be grappled with in earnest. 33 34

35 36

Ibid., pp. 115, 120. Augustine uses Cicero’s definitions of friendship and political community (res publica, ‘commonwealth’) against him, effectively suggesting that these fail to disguise crucial differences between the Christian and pagan ways of understanding and practising them. See City of God XIX 21; Ep. CCLVIII. Cf. Von Heyking, ‘The Luminous Path of Friendship’, pp. 119–20. See Meilaender, Friendship, pp. 75–8. Interestingly, both Schindler and Von Heyking, while engaging with Meilaender’s book, remain silent about precisely this chapter; cf. Von Heyking, ‘The Luminous Path of Friendship’, pp. 121, 139–40.

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Meilaender’s first objection concerns the practicality of civic friendship – or, as he also terms it, the ideal of ‘participatory-communal polity’.37 Is this ideal realizable? Meilaender admits that the small city-state of ancient Greece provided at least a plausible setting, yet he is quick to point to historical data suggesting that even in classical Athens, the presumed blueprint of democracy, this ideal was not attained. Indeed, the ‘hetaery’, a political coalition of friends, was responsible for a highly divisive and partisan style of politics.38 If this was  already the case in Athens, Meilaender asks, then surely the modern nation-state is simply too large and anonymous for civic friendship to be realizable? Meilaender’s next objection is more conceptual and far-reaching. He argues not only that civic friendship is rare, or difficult to realize, but also that the ideal itself is ‘incoherent’.39 The reason is that it conflates two spheres of life that are in reality distinct and separate, and indeed ought to remain so. Whereas friendship is a sphere of love, where people have particular interests and goods in common, the political community serves the common good. The political community exists to provide justice: proper adjudication between the various and often conflicting interests of individuals citizens (including friends) from a strictly impersonal and disinterested perspective. In order to be able to adjudicate fairly, public officials must ‘leave behind the particular goods they desire’.40 This public provision of justice, Meilaender explains, will certainly ‘nourish and foster private friendships’.41 Yet as soon as the special interests and intentions of private friendships are allowed to influence and determine this provision, it will begin to undermine it. In a sinful world, Meilaender observes, such confusion between private and public must lead to the exclusion of some people, and a disregard for their interests. Thus we have a view of friendship as a bond that is by definition partial, characterized by special interests. It is because of this partiality, and in defence of justice, that Meilaender wants to keep friendship and its interests outside the public-political realm. And it is on the basis of this sharp demarcation that Meilaender expresses his ultimate and most explicitly theological objection. 37 38 39 40

41

Meilaender, Friendship, p. 70. Ibid., pp. 71–2. Ibid., p. 74. Ibid. Cf. Richard Mulgan, ‘The Role of Friendship in Aristotle’s Political Theory’, in The Challenge to Friendship in Modernity (ed. Preston King and Heather Devere; London: Frank Cass, 2000), pp. 15–32 (31). Meilaender, Friendship, p. 75.

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So  far his criticism has been that the ideal of civic friendship amounts to a category mistake, involving the projection of a private relationship onto a public one: political community, an instrumental bond for the sake of justice, is expected to deliver the goods that only friendship can offer. Yet now Meilaender goes on to claim that this confusion of friendship and political community is in fact ‘an example of inordinate and idolatrous love’.42 Whence this grave accusation? How could the ideal of civic friendship, however ill-conceived, involve unmerited worship? Meilaender admits that civic friendship, like other idolatries, contains an element of truth. It is a classic example of a good intuition that is followed up badly. From a Christian point of view, pagan proponents of civic friendship are ‘onto something’ when they fathom that friendship could be something greater than just the affairs and interests of a couple of particular friends. As Meilaender explains, our friendships, though partial at present, foreshadow a ‘greater’ community: the community of love ‘which God is building’,43 and in which the friendship and universal love will forever be reconciled.44 Yet from this theological perspective, to seek perfection and fulfilment of friendship in earthly cities is to miss the mark. It disregards the fact that we cannot build this ‘greater’ community of love ourselves, and that only God can and will inaugurate it. Meanwhile, the political bond is merely ‘an impersonal bond of justice in the world of claim and counterclaim’,45 necessary precisely insofar as the community of universal friendship has not yet been realized. To strive for civic friendship, therefore, is to grasp for this universal community prematurely. Such striving is idolatrous insofar as it isn’t rooted in the love of God, which, of course, is the very foundation of a future universal community. This, in short, is Meilaender’s charge of idolatry, laid at the door of those supporting the idea of civic friendship. As suggested earlier, it is at its heart an Augustinian charge: it echoes Augustine’s description, in City of God, of the earthly city as an idolatrous commonwealth, ‘created by self-love reaching the  point of contempt for God’; as a city that ‘glories in itself ’ (Book XIV, Chapter 28).46 42 43 44

45 46

Ibid. Ibid., p. 77. Elsewhere Meilaender describes how friendship can in fact ‘school’ us in love, as ‘a sign and a call by which God draws us toward a love more universal in scope’; Ibid., p. 17. Ibid., p. 77. Augustine, City of God (trans. Henry Bettenson; London: Penguin Books, 1984), p. 593. Cf. also Augustine’s notion of the right ‘order of love’, in On Christian Doctrine I 22–35.

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Friendship, politics and the common good Meilaender’s reasons for rejecting civic friendship, however, need to be challenged. The problem is not the Augustinian charge of idolatry that structures his point in broad outline, but more specifically the minimalist understanding of political community that colours his appropriation of Augustine’s critique – leading to an overly strict separation between friendship (and society more generally) and politics. In highlighting the idolatrous economy implied in the ideal of civic friendship, Meilaender makes much of the difference and distance between friendship and political community. The ideal is accused of turning political community into a ‘surrogate’ perfection of friendship, disregarding the Heavenly City as friendship’s true fulfilment. Meilaender warns us: to the untrained (pagan) eye, friendship and political community may look similar, yet this is misleading: their private and public characters respectively point to very different purposes. However, isn’t he making too much of the difference, or at least more than is strictly necessary to sustain his main charge of idolatry? In Meilaender’s account, we saw, friendship and political community constitute separate spheres. In friendship (as in family) we privately pursue and enjoy the goods that matter to human existence (love, intimacy, common pursuits, etc.), and in this privacy lie already the seeds of partiality, and hence injustice. Political community, for its part, exists for the sake of justice, yet cannot provide any of the goods that it seeks to protect. But surely this distinction is too rigid? Where Meilaender sees only two spheres – one strictly private, the other public-political – one might insert a third sphere: one that is ‘public’ but not yet political. Here individuals and close social units (e.g. family) become part of society, their interests and pursuits not left behind but rather drawn into a nexus of goods enjoyed in a wider and more public context, such as art and education. As O’Donovan points out, these are goods the promotion of which does not necessarily require the involvement of government.47 In other words, the ‘common good’ does not primarily consist in the instrumental good of justice, as Meilaender suggests, but rather the nexus of goods enjoyed and pursued in society – which may or may not be promoted politically. This threefold distinction between private, public and political is arguably more in line with Biblical understandings of social and political realities. In contrast to Locke’s narrative of the evolution of political society,48 Scripture presents human society as part of original creation, and the 47 48

O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 56. John Locke, Two Treatises of Government (1690).

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object of the Creator’s blessing.49 Peoples and nations are no human artefacts, let alone post-lapsarian innovations.50 Meanwhile, this perspective still allows for an Augustinian insistence that government is in fact a temporary (divine) provision, necessitated by sin. Meilaender may be correct in suggesting that society’s common good only really comes into view implicitly, or ‘negatively’, namely through its distortion – in the form of crimes, offences and conflicting claims between citizens, and the judicial responses to these. In other words: pace political ideals such as expounded in Rousseau’s Social Contract (1762) (to which Meilaender refers), politics is not in the business of devising a common good but rather, as O’Donovan puts it, of defending it.51 At the same time, how could society recognize and indeed respond to crimes, offences and conflicts appropriately if not on the basis of a (implicit) grasp of the common good; that is, as a substantive rather than a merely procedural good? How could we judge offences, or adjudicate between conflicting claims, on the basis of strictly private perspectives and interests only (i.e., of the victims, perpetrators and or claimants involved). What is required is an understanding of the common good as that which mediates between these perspectives and interests, and as such provides the basis for valid and effective public judgements. Thus Meilaender’s characterization of the political community is rather extreme, almost libertarian: while informed by antitotalitarian instincts, it fails to distinguish properly between political office and political community, mistaking the latter for a political artefact. By the same token Meilaender’s distinction fails to do justice to friendship. It may be true that friendship has no direct business in the area of politics, or at least in political office, which, after all, is concerned with the demands of a society as a whole (as suggested earlier). Yet if there is also a public sphere, distinct (if not separate) from the political sphere in the way just suggested, then we might imagine friendship to have a share in this sphere without necessarily ‘politicizing’ it. In fact, friendship may even resemble the public sphere in a way that other social units don’t. Friendship, we saw earlier, is open to increasing numbers of friends. More importantly, friendship, in contrast to family, with its relations of kinship (e.g., parent-child) and clearly defined social goods (e.g., intimacy, education), is more ‘open-ended’: less governed by any such social patterns 49 50 51

Cf. Gen. 1.26–8; 9.1. Cf. Gen. 12.1–3; Ps. 87; Rev. 21.24, 26. Cf. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, pp. 57–62. O’Donovan seeks to avoid the notion of the common good as a ‘project’, purposively designed, or as something to which all other goods are subordinate, maintaining that the good of society is precisely its ‘nexus of social communications’; O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 61.

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and goods. Despite conventional notions of friendship as based on common interests, in reality friendship can develop between very diverse people, growing around a ‘common good’ transcending the interests of each individual friend. In such cases friendship arguably resembles public life rather than the sphere of family, the interaction between the friends being transparent to the nexus of human goods that defines society. This theme will be explored in more detail in Chapter 3. At this point, however, it suffices to say that the boundaries between the private, public and political spheres are not necessarily as impenetrable as Meilaender suggests. Once the common good is no longer understood in strictly procedural terms, but recognized as corresponding to a distinctly public sphere, it is no longer necessary to guard the boundaries between friendship and politics as anxiously as Meilaender does. For now both have a ‘stake’ in the public sphere, albeit in very different ways. Hence, if friendship enters the sphere of political affairs, then this might be on account of its being part of public life – that is, it need not lead to the private and political sphere collapsing into each other.

Civic friendship as idolatry The above criticism of Meilaender’s distinction between friendship and political community need not wholly undermine his ultimate charge: the accusation that the ideal of civic friendship is idolatrous. This accusation, it is true, draws much of its force from his exaggerated distinction. Yet it remains a valid one, even if one adopts the alternative, three-partite distinction outlined above. For if there is such a thing as human society, then surely this too can become an object of idolatry, alongside its specifically political organization. Biblically speaking, idolatry is to love a part of creation – creature or artefact – with the kind of love that is due to God only. As part of God’s good creation, it is worthy of our love. Yet, as Augustine reminds us, our love easily becomes excessive, or ‘inordinate’, in that we are expecting too much of the object of our love.52 To idolize human society in one of its typical manifestations – peoples, nations, countries and so forth – is not only to ignore its current susceptibility to corruption, but also to foreclose its ultimate fulfilment in the Kingdom of God (Meilaender’s ‘greater’ community). Racism, nationalism and imperialism are typical examples of such foreclosure: what is only an aspect or segment of the entire human race (race, nationality, ethnicity) is made into the defining characteristic. In this particular instance, then, idolatry ironically becomes self-worship. And this, in 52

Cf. Augustine, On Christian Doctrine I 27.

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turn, easily translates in the exclusion, repression and domination so feared by Meilaender.53 Indeed, one can imagine how friendship might support such political idolatry. One need not accept Meilaender’s caricature of civic friendship, that is, in order to recognize how friendship and its dynamic of reciprocity might amplify the self-glorifying and exclusivist tendencies of sinful human society. As Meilaender warns us: ‘the ideal of civic friendship in the polis was quite compatible with – probably dependent upon – a system of slavery’.54 This is a serious concern in a theological study exploring friendship from a political angle (especially if Aristotle himself is among its main interlocutors!). It is therefore worth considering to what extent this link between civic friendship and political idolatry (including its practical implications) is intrinsic to Aristotle’s interpretation of friendship and political community, and, if such a link can be established, whether his writings can be a trustworthy source for the discussion in subsequent chapters. In Books VIII and IX of the Nicomachean Ethics (NE), which are devoted entirely to the ethics of friendship, Aristotle refers at several points to city-wide friendship, or ‘political friendship’ (jilίa politikὴ). In Chapter 3 these passages will be discussed in more detail. Here I will pay attention to just two passages – one in the Ethics, the other in the Politics – that each show aspects of the political philosophy underpinning Aristotle’s reflections on politics and friendship. This will help in establishing whether the Aristotelian ideal of civic friendship is indeed vulnerable to idolatry, as maintained by Meilaender. In Book VIII, chapter 9, of the Ethics Aristotle comments on the various forms and levels of human ‘association’ (koinῶnia) within a city. While he does not use the language of friendship (jilίa) in this particular instance, we may at least assume that friendship is in the back of his mind, if only because elsewhere he uses the same word (koinῶnia) to describe the element of sharing in friendship.55 Now, Aristotle observes that ‘all associations are parts as it were of the association of the State’ (1160a8–9).56 Thus ‘State’, or rather a city-state (pόliV), is made up of various kinds of associations, or friendly bonds. Here Aristotle is particularly interested in this political association, the one that unites all other associations into a whole, so that we can speak of a political community 53

54 55 56

Of the earthly city Augustine writes not only that it ‘glories in itself ’, but also that ‘the lust for domination lords it over its over its princes as over the nations it subjugates’; Augustine, City of God, p. 593. Meilaender, Friendship, p. 84. NE 1159b32 (VIII 9). The phrase is repeated in NE 1160a28–30. Unless stated otherwise, translations are taken from Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics.

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in the first place. A few lines down he writes that smaller associations ‘seem to be subordinate to the association of the State’, the reason being that the latter ‘aims not at a temporary advantage but at one covering the whole of life’ (1160a22–3, emphasis added). The phrase ‘the whole of life’ (ἅpanta tὸn bίon) is crucial. It suggests that difference between the city and its constituent parts is more than quantitative only; it is not just a larger association, encompassing other associations and friendships, but one that involves a higher level of social life. But what does ‘whole’ or ‘higher’ mean here? The notion of ‘wholeness’ echoes Aristotle’s description of eὐdaimonίa, or ‘happiness’ (a key concept governing Aristotle’s moral philosophy), in terms of ‘completeness’ (teleiόthV).57 Here in Book VIII, however, the focus lies on completeness in its specifically political form.58 In order to see what Aristotle means by this, and how he thinks the city instantiates it, it will be useful briefly to turn to his Politics, and particularly to its notion of ‘the good life’. According to Aristotle, the good life (eὖ zῆn) is unattainable as long as we live our lives within the confines of small social units like the family. Such life is largely occupied with the provision for the necessities of life (food, shelter, procreation, etc.). These units can become part of a city, of course, where they continue to provide for the necessities of life. Yet city life, while drawing on such provision, also transcends these necessities. Or, as Aristotle puts it: ‘while [the city] comes into existence for the sake of life, it exists for the good life’ (1252b30).59 City life is ‘good’ in that, due to the economy of scale, it offers freedom to pursue goods that are not just useful (i.e., serving mere survival) but valuable and enjoyable in themselves – and therefore, according to Aristotle, all the more worthy. Examples of such goods would be education, philosophy, patronage of the arts, training in moral excellence (virtue) and public office. Thus Aristotle writes that ‘the political fellowship must therefore be deemed to exist for the sake of noble actions, not merely for living in common’ (1281a3–4). But there is a problem: this freedom to live the good life is only available to some city-dwellers. It can only be enjoyed by some as long as (many) others will do the hard work required to obtain food, safety, domestic welfare and 57 58

59

Cf. NE I 15. On the tension between the political and contemplative dimensions of eὐdaimonίa, particularly in NE X, see Gabriel Richardson Lear, Happy Lives and the Highest Good: An Essay on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), pp. 175–207. Unless stated otherwise, translations are taken from Aristotle, Politics (ed. G. P. Goold; trans. H. Rackham; The Loeb Classical Library, vol. 264, London: Harvard University Press, 1944).

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so on. Indeed, the reality in Aristotle’s days (acknowledged and endorsed by Aristotle) is that many are forced to do this work: an army of slaves, owned by a relatively small elite of (male) citizens of the city, is responsible for most of the physical labour, with the remaining work and domestic activities left to professionals and women, neither of which enjoy full citizen status.60 For Aristotle (as for Plato), the human body provides a useful analogy to this order. Just as reason, the ‘highest’ part of the soul, rules over its ‘lower’ appetitive and vegetative faculties, so do free citizens direct workers and use slaves, in public life as well as within the domestic sphere.61 While slaves are thus an extension of their masters, or indeed ‘living tools’ (1254a9–13),62 it is clear that they can have ‘no share in well-being or in purposive life’ (1280a33). Enjoying the status of ‘citizen’ (polίthV), by contrast, is defined in terms of ‘the right to participate in judicial functions and in office’ (1275a24) – which in Aristotle’s days excluded the vast majority of a city’s inhabitants.63 Thus we get a glimpse of a city community (a mixture of ideal and historical reality, to be sure) that corresponds rather closely with the vision Meilaender articulates – and rejects. First of all, the model is presented as the highest, most complete form of human community. As such, it is a direct rival to the Heavenly City. Instead of placing existing patterns of city life against the horizon of a better society to come, it makes these patterns into an ultimate reality. From a Biblical point of view, therefore, the ideal is idolatrous by definition. Indeed, we might even detect a hidden narcissistic dimension to this idolatry (Augustine’s ‘self-glorification’). For the Aristotelian city is not really a society, a community in which all members have a stake in its public goods and affairs; instead, it resembles a large corporation run by a small, aristocratic elite. And only this select company determines what kind of community the polis will be: how it will be governed, what its priorities will be and so on. It is no coincidence that Aristotle’s characterization of city life directly corresponds to the virtuous life – that is, the sort of existence available only to those who can afford not to fill their lives with hard labour and work. It is not overly cynical, surely, to assume that this privileged class has an interest in maintaining a political structure that supports and enables its way of life. The exclusivist and repressive implications are all too obvious. 60

61 62 63

Cf. Bernd Wannenwetsch, Political Worship: Ethics for Christian Citizens (Oxford Studies in Theological Ethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 118–22. See 1254a14–1255b3. Cf. NE 1161b4. See 1275a5–18.

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But what is the role of friendship in this aristocracy? Here it is important to distinguish between different ‘spheres’ of friendship. Remember that Aristotle describes a city as including multiple associations, itself being the most complete association. Now, insofar as the latter should be understood in terms of friendship (as suggested elsewhere by his notion of ‘political friendship’), the political role of friendship indeed begins to look rather dubious. For here ‘friendship’ presumably includes even the highly non-reciprocal and oppressive relationships between masters and slaves. And the picture does not improve when we turn to the more equal friendships between the free citizens of the city. Given the opportunities these men have to lead a life of learning, moral self-perfection and involvement in public affairs, they, more than anyone else, are in a position to develop and maintain friendships of virtue – which Aristotle deems the highest type of friendship (as we will see in Chapter 3). Yet in Aristotle’s world this type of friendship – as part of the life of virtue – is directly dependent on non-reciprocal and oppressive relations: just as a citizen’s freedom to perform magnificent public works is dependent on their slaves’ hard labour, so too is his freedom to spend time with his noble friends in, say, philosophical debates. Here, surely, we see Meilaender’s fears realized: the ‘partiality’ of friendship is allowed to govern and shape political community, to the point of sanctioning what, from a Christian point of view (at least), are grave examples of injustice. Within a general political dynamic that is already exclusivist and oppressive, surely this Aristotelian ideal of virtuous friendship merely enforces that dynamic? What is presented as the common pursuit of virtue hides a common interest in maintaining privilege and exploiting the less privileged.

Avoiding the ‘Ciceronian Logic’ Fortunately, as we will see later, there is more to be said about Aristotle’s ethics of friendship, including its political aspects. In fact, we can already see at this point that his views are not as coherent – or consistently cynical – as the above sketch might suggest. For example, there is tension between Aristotle’s hierarchical ideal of the city presented in Politics, and his insistence that the city as a whole constitutes the most complete human association (rather than the select company of free citizens), or indeed his insistence that this association is a genuine form of friendship. From the hierarchical perspective of the Politics, the relationship between, say, master and slave is merely an instrumental one, allowing for the ‘good life’, yet not the good life itself. Yet if Aristotle describes this and other relationships in terms of friendship, then why doesn’t he hasten

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to specify it to be a friendship of ‘utility’,64 or a hybrid made up of various types of associations? Nevertheless, it is important to be aware of the potential of Aristotle’s friendship ideal for affirming or even amplifying hierarchical, self-seeking and exclusivist tendencies within earthly political communities. Since Aristotle’s interest lies mostly with friendship of virtue, what we need to guard against is a dynamic in which ‘virtue’ functions to sanction the mutual affirmation and support among those who are in a position of power, at the exclusion of the powerless. This is a dynamic that is arguably more explicit still in the writings of another classical author, the Roman politician and philosopher Cicero. In his On Friendship (Laelius de Amicitia) Cicero, too, champions virtue as the compass of true friendship. Yet whereas Aristotle never forgets that virtue consists first and foremost in particular acts,65 Cicero is more willing to think of virtue as something you can possess; a quality, of which you can have ‘more or less’, and indeed more than someone else. Thus the ideal of virtuous friendship is easily dominated by the notion of similarity. Take, for example, the following phrase: a friend, Cicero writes, is ‘a sort of image of [one]self ’ (quoddam exemplar sui).66 If the emphasis lies on similarity, and on the friends being virtuous, then similarity easily becomes similarity in virtuous qualities; the friend becomes a mere instantiation of virtue. Cicero insists: ‘you should love your friend after you have appraised him; you should not appraise him after you have begun to love him’.67 Jacques Derrida has labelled this the ‘Ciceronian logic’,68 a logic that prioritizes quality and qualitative similarity (or difference), to the detriment of numerical distinction, ‘otherness’. If this logic is allowed to prevail, then friendship is at best a relationship based on the mutual admiration and affirmation between like-minded people.69 At its worst, friendship becomes a system of cooptation and exclusion: cooptation insofar as friends are chosen and admitted on the basis of values and interests established or independently of the relationship; and exclusion insofar as those who do not meet relevant criteria are barred 64 65 66

67 68 69

Cf. NE VIII 3. Cf., for example, NE 1103a31. De Am. vii/23. Translation taken from Cicero, De Senectute – De Amicitia – De Divinatione (ed. G. P. Goold; trans. William Armistead Falconer; The Loeb Classical Library, vol. 154, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1923). De Am. xxii/85. Jacques Derrida, The Politics of Friendship (trans. George Collins; London: Verso, 2005), p. 4. Pace Walter Nicgorski, ‘Cicero’s Distinctive Voice on Friendship: De Amicitia and De Republica’, in Friendship & Politics: Essays in Political Thought (ed. John von Heyking and Richard Avramenko; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), pp. 84–111 (102–3). For an outright dismissal of the notion that certain qualities (or ‘particulars’) matter in friendship, see Backström, Fear of Openness, pp. 55–64.

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from friendship and its benefits.70 And here, of course, the specifically political dimension of the Ciceronian logic emerges – which is the real target of Derrida’s critique.71 If this friendship logic is allowed to define the terms of engagement in the political community, it will surely encourage, support or entrench a social regime based on cooptation, exclusion and possibly exploitation, like the one underpinning Aristotle’s ideal of the ‘good life’ in the Politics.

The way ahead The picture sketched above does not purport to give an exhaustive account of Cicero’s friendship ethics, let alone Aristotle’s. As we already saw with regard to Aristotle, the work of an author is too complex to fit such a picture neatly. The above is meant rather as a cautionary note, highlighting reasons why we should take Meilaender’s warnings about civic friendship seriously, notwithstanding his overly instrumental understanding of political community. Earlier an argument was made for taking a narrative approach to this book’s topic, in relation to the focus on friendship in its ordinary sense: a relationship of a limited number of particular friends. Yet now that the theological charge of idolatry has been addressed, including some practical and indeed political implications, an additional reason for adopting this approach emerges. As long as reflection on friendship stays within a theoretical realm, it will tend towards articulating an organizing principle such as reciprocity, common interest, sacrificial love and so on. Such principles, however, like the ‘Ciceronian logic’, will sooner or later turn out to be restrictive, unable to do justice to the full experience of friendship. Focusing on a concrete story of friendship, by contrast, might help to steer clear of the dominance of such principles. Moreover, this approach will address the theological concerns articulated by Meilaender. For insofar as it provides narrative ‘counterweight’ to models and principles, it will keep at bay the classical ideals he rejects. It will also allow us to explore stories of friendship that have an unmistakable political dimension – one that does not necessarily conform to existing models of civic friendship. More specifically, it allows us to examine the stories of friends who are simultaneously followers of Christ: friends who are expecting ‘something better’ than earthly 70

71

There is already a hint of cooptation in Cicero’s claim that ‘good men love and join to themselves (asciscantque sibi) other good men’ (xiv/50). The Oxford Latin Dictionary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982) lists the following meanings for asciscere: ‘to take (a person) to oneself (as an ally, associate, or the like); admit (to one’s fellowship, counsels, etc.); bring in (on one’s own side); to introduce to the citizenship, senatorial rank, etc’. Cf. Derrida, Politics of Friendship, pp. 64–5.

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cities (Heb. 11.40),72 and yet who are deeply involved in the life of the earthly cities in which they are placed. It is in view of these considerations that the argument in this book will be governed by a historical example of Christian friendship. As already announced in the Introduction, the example selected is the story of friendship between Dietrich Bonhoeffer and George Bell, from 1933 until 1945. It is a story of two Christian friends within a wider network of relationship and friendships. Furthermore, and crucially, their story increasingly became one of political involvement, against the backdrop of the rising threat of war, the deteriorating German church crisis and, ultimately, World War II. Even though the emphasis in this book lies on politics in friendship, the fact that the friendship of Bell and Bonhoeffer develops against an overtly political horizon might help in drawing out the political dimensions of their friendship. Finally, with these two protagonists we are also dealing with two prominent leaders in the areas of pastoral care, church leadership and theology. This means that in seeking to interpret their story theologically, we need not do this from an external perspective only, but can expect to be able to draw on their own writings as well (particularly with regard to Bonhoeffer). This chapter has sought to clarify some preliminary issues: descriptions, focus and theological orientation. The discussion in subsequent chapters will be shaped largely (if not exclusively) by the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer. Their story will function as both a point of departure and a recurring point of reference. Thus the discussion will be a dialogue, as it were, between narrative on the one hand, and systematic reflection on the other: the latter should help in thinking beyond the particularities of Bell and Bonhoeffer, while their story should stand guard against overly enthusiastic generalizations. Some chapters will largely focus on the story (Chapters 2 and 5), whereas others will be largely devoted to political, philosophical and theological reflections in the light of the story. Undertaking a study in political ethics on the basis of a particular story may seem risky. What is the meaning of one story in the great scheme of things? Can something as particular as a tale of two friends significantly enrich or even challenge conventional understanding of political phenomena? Nevertheless, a narrative-led approach is theologically worthwhile and even warranted. If, as Scripture attests, God acts in and through history, then history is open-ended, rather than closed and pre-determined. Indeed, if God not only ‘causes’ the course of history but also acts in history, then this suggests that human beings 72

Biblical quotations are taken from the English Standard Version (ESV).

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remain free to act as well – ‘free’, not in terms of autonomy, but rather in terms of responsiveness to God and fellow-creatures. Again, this open-endedness means that the meaning of particular events or stories cannot be determined intrahistorically, on the basis of history’s over-all narrative arc – it will be determined by divine judgement instead, to be revealed by the Lamb at the end of this age, as suggested in Revelation.73 God, not the totality of historical processes, will determine which event or narrative is of lasting significance. All generations will stand before the Lamb – not just the last one. No act, event or story will simply be forgotten, swept aside by subsequent history as a matter of fact.74 And because the meaning of acts, events and stories will be determined by way of a personal judgement (rather than by ‘laws of history’), the world may expect to be surprised: some moments of history will only at that point be revealed in their full significance. This eschatological perspective should encourage us to study particular stories in the life of the church without being too much concerned about relevance or ‘impact’. If we will conclude that such a story contains an important piece of Christian witness, from whatever practical perspective (e.g., political), then surely that already will be worth the effort.

73 74

Cf. Rev. chs 5–6. Jürgen Moltmann, Theology of Hope (London: SCM, 1967), pp. 107–8, 268–9, 278–9. Cf. Robert Spaemann, Essays in Anthropology: Variations on a Theme (trans. Guido de Graaff and James Mumford; Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2010), pp. 21–2, 42–4.

2

A Story of Friendship: Bell and Bonhoeffer

This chapter will introduce the persons whose friendship will frame the discussion in subsequent chapters: George Bell and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. It will first provide short biographies of Bell and Bonhoeffer respectively (Section I). This will be followed by an overview of the story of their friendship, as it developed from 1933, the year in which they first met, until 1945, the year of Bonhoeffer’s execution, paying special attention to an episode that seems particularly interesting from a political point of view (Section II). The final section will offer some provisional reflections on the friendship, including its political dimension, partly in the light of the discussion in the previous chapter.

I  Ways towards friendship This section will begin with an account of Bell’s life and work, since they are less broadly known, and less written about, than Bonhoeffer’s. This will also mean that the account of Bonhoeffer’s life can be appropriately selective.

George Bell George Kennedy Allen Bell (1883–1958) is commonly known as Bishop Bell. In Great Britain he is mostly remembered for his protests against the night-bombing of German cities during World War II, which he voiced in the House of Lords. In fact, Bell had long warned against the dangers of Nazism, in the days when the government still hoped to pacify Hitler. Yet, after such illusions had been shattered, and war seemed inevitable, it was Bell who urged the government to renew peace negotiations. If at first sight Bell might seem rather inconstant in his opinions, his life story suggests otherwise.

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In 1907, after finishing his undergraduate degree in English Literature at Christ Church, Oxford, and subsequent training at Wells Theological College, Bell  was ordained and appointed curate at Leeds Parish Church. In 1910 he returned to Christ Church to take up a Clerical Scholarship. Four years later he was called to Lambeth Palace to serve under the archbishop of Canterbury, Randall Davidson, first as junior and then senior chaplain.1 In 1924 he was appointed to the Deanery of Canterbury Cathedral. After the death of Davidson, it was Bell who organized the enthronement of Davidson’s successor, Cosmo Lang. At Canterbury Bell initiated the Festival of Music and Drama, held annually in and around the Cathedral. T. S. Eliot’s Murder in the Cathedral was one of the pieces commissioned under Bell’s auspices.2 From 1929 until 1957 Bell served as the bishop of Chichester. It was especially in this role that Bell engaged in matters of public interest that were dear to him: not only matters relating to the Church of England, or the international Christian fellowship (within which he came to play a crucial role), but also social and political matters in a wider sense – including Britain’s increasingly fraught relations with Germany. When Bell became bishop of Chichester, in 1929, he had already been active in the ecumenical movement for 10 years, at a time when the movement was still in its embryonic phase. One of the ecumenical bodies was the Council for Faith and Order (founded in 1910), which dealt with matters of doctrine and ecclesiology. Bell, however, was more interested in discussing ‘practical’ themes, such as the implications of Christianity for social and political issues. In 1925 he attended the Stockholm Conference, where for the first time such themes were discussed at an ecumenical level. Bell was also closely involved in the founding of the Council of Life and Work, which was meant to continue the legacy of Stockholm. That Bell was drawn to this aspect of ecumenism might be explained by his schooling in what Gordon Rupp calls ‘that historic Anglican theological tradition’: a tradition emphasizing social action, inspired by the ‘incarnational’ theology of F. D. Maurice and B. F. Westcott.3 In Bell’s time, its primary exponent was William Temple, later archbishop of Canterbury (1942–4).4 Yet World War I meant that the horizon of Bell’s moral sensitivity was drastically widened. While 1

2

3

4

Bell wrote a widely acclaimed biography of Davidson: G. K. A. Bell, Randall Davidson: Archbishop of Canterbury (London: Oxford University Press, 1935). Ronald C. D. Jasper, George Bell: Bishop of Chichester (London: Oxford University Press, 1967), pp. 40–5. Kenneth Slack, George Bell (London: SCM Press, 1971), pp. 37–8. Gordon Rupp, ‘I seek my brethren’: Bishop Bell and the German Churches (London: Epworth Press, 1974), p. 9. For Bell’s assessment of Temple’s legacy, see Bell’s memoir in A. E. Baker, William Temple and his Message (Middlesex: Penguin, 1946), pp. 34–6, 44–5.

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the victorious nations had been busy imposing a humiliating peace treaty on Germany and its allies (Versailles, 1918), the awareness arose among churches in Europe and North America that the responsibility for maintaining peace was theirs too. For Bell this meant a shift from social issues such as he had encountered in Leeds, to issues of international political order the likes of which were discussed, for example, in the newly formed League of Nations. In 1919, on behalf of Archbishop Randall, Bell attended a conference organized by the World Alliance for Promoting International Friendship through the Churches, at Oud Wassenaar (Netherlands). Though this was not the first ­ecumenical conference, it was important for the birth of the Life and Work division within the ecumenical movement. The list of participants included Nathan Söderblom, bishop of Uppsala (who was to lead the Stockholm conference in 1925), Archbishop Eivind Berggrav of Norway, and the German theologian Adolf Deissmann. Bell met these men for the first time at this conference, and he became friends with all three. The friendships would prove crucial for the ecumenical movement in years to come.5 Bell attended one of the early ecumenical conferences, never to turn away from the movement that emerged from these meetings. Soon he became chairman of the World Alliance, and it was during his presidency that the Alliance began to develop into the organization that since 1948 is known as the Word Council of Churches (WCC). The founding process of the Universal Christian Council for Life and Work, begun in 1927, also took place under Bell’s leadership. Like Faith and Order, it would as yet remain independent from the World Alliance, but operate in close cooperation with it (and with Faith and Order). Bell became the president of the Council’s executive committee and in 1932 he was appointed chairman of the Council itself.6 Between 1927 and 1931, Bell assisted Deissmann in organizing three conferences for young theologians from both Germany and Great Britain.7 It was here that Bell learned about the rise of fascism in Germany, experiencing it firsthand from the papers presented by German delegates as well as from the ensuing debates – not least among the German delegates themselves. Thus, whereas his positions of leadership within the ecumenical movement provided Bell with a platform for intervening in the ecclesiastical conflict in Germany during the 1930s, it was his personal acquaintance with young German theologians that helped him to understand the underlying problems. Edwin Robertson puts it

5 6 7

Edwin Robertson, Unshakeable Friend (London: CCBI, 1995), pp. 3–4. Jasper, George Bell, pp. 95–6. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, pp. 30–1. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, pp. 6, 11–15.

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as follows: ‘If the horrors of Nazism took us by surprise a decade later, it was because we had not listened. Bell listened.’8 In 1929, the year he became bishop of Chichester, Bell drafted a resolution for the World Alliance expressing support for the 1928 Kellogg-Briand pact; it was later endorsed by the Lambeth Conference of 1930. The resolution represents Bell’s views on international politics, especially war and peace.9 Yet it was not only as leader within the ecumenical movement that Bell campaigned for peace. As the bishop of Chichester, Bell had a seat in the House of Lords. In 1940, for example, Bell spoke up in the House on behalf of the German refugees who were being interned after Hitler had invaded France, Belgium and the Netherlands. Bell protested against the harsh treatment of those who had just escaped from Nazi terror. Not only did he speak out in Westminster, he also visited one of the camps, sought to improve the conditions of the refugees and contributed to their early release.10 During World War II, Bell tabled many uncomfortable questions in the House of Lords concerning the ‘total war’ waged against Germany. Not only did he question the systematic bombing of German cities, he also campaigned for lifting the blockade against humanitarian aid to occupied countries in Europe. Bell found his main opponent in Lord Vansittart, who believed final victory demanded the destruction of Germany. Unfortunately for Bell it was Vansittart who represented the majority view, in support of Churchill and his war cabinet. By publicly questioning the cabinet in times of war, Bell isolated himself. It is said that due to his critical stance he lost his chances of being appointed archbishop of Canterbury.11 But Bell was not a person to give up. He was convinced, and indeed knew from personal experience, that behind the Nazi regime there was ‘another Germany’.12 And among those who had shown him this other Germany, of course, was his friend Dietrich Bonhoeffer.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906–45), unlike Bell, has acquired the reputation of a major twentieth-century theologian. If outside Germany this reputation was   8   9

10

11 12

Ibid., p. 12. The resolution states that ‘war . . . is incompatible with the mind and method of Christ, and therefore incompatible with the mind and method of his Church’. Quoted in Jasper, George Bell, p. 94. For Bell’s views on ‘just war’, see G. K. A. Bell, Christianity and World Order (Middlesex: Harmondsworth, 1941), pp. 73ff, 80ff. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, pp. 65–70. Humanitarian aid and care for refugees remained one of Bell’s major concerns during and after the war; cf. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, pp. 46–60, 100–27. Cf. Slack, George Bell, pp. 17–18. Cf. Ibid., p. 80.

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established only after the war,13 within German theological and ecclesiastical circles Bonhoeffer had proved his scholarly proficiency at a very early age: he finished his first doctoral thesis at the age of 21 and his second was published when he was only 25.14 Nevertheless, Bonhoeffer’s life resembles Bell’s in at least two ways: it was a life of service to the church. Furthermore, his working life, like Bell’s, was determined to a great extent by the political crises in the 1930s and 1940s. Like Bell, he became involved in the ecumenical movement at an early stage of its existence, and came to appreciate the support it provided – initially during the German church struggle, but later also during the war. Bonhoeffer did not hold offices of similar stature to Bell’s; during the ecclesiastical struggles of the 1930s, he had only his theological acuteness, pastoral sensitivity and personal courage with which to engage in the conflict.15 Furthermore, whereas Bell used these offices mostly to muster international support for a cause overseas, Bonhoeffer, of course, was caught up in a domestic conflict – involving his ‘home church’ as well as his home country. From the late 1930s onwards, however, the church conflict moved into the background, as the war and the Nazi regime’s tightening grip on German society refocused the attention of Bonhoeffer and other Christian leaders. By the time World War II broke out, the nature of their opposition had changed. As for Bonhoeffer, he got involved in the organized resistance, a secret network that sought to overthrow Hitler and his regime. When he was imprisoned in 1943, it was initially for minor charges. However, soon after the failed bomb attack of 20 July 1944 investigations by the secret police (Gestapo) led to the discovery of Bonhoeffer’s involvement in the resistance. He was hanged on 9 April 1945, just weeks before Germany’s surrender. If Bonhoeffer’s theological discernment and pastoral awareness made him speak out and act during the German church struggle, it was his social background that prepared him also for participating in the resistance later on. The resistance was very much an elite movement, consisting as it did in a network of prominent figures within the churches, civil society, politics and the army. Bonhoeffer himself was born into an educated and cultured family, which, after moving to Berlin in 1912, joined the capital’s upper middle classes. Bonhoeffer’s 13

14 15

J. A. T. Robinson’s radical portrait of Bonhoeffer, in Honest to God (1963), was inspired by Bonhoeffer’s comments on ‘religionless Christianity’ in Letters and Papers from Prison (first published in German in 1951), which sparked interest in Bonhoeffer’s theology at an international level; see Stephen R. Haynes, The Bonhoeffer Phenomenon (London: SCM Press, 2004), p. 16. Sanctorum Communio (1927) and Act and Being (Akt und Sein, 1931). Those who had read The Cost of Discipleship (Nachfolge, 1937) and Life Together (Gemeinsames Leben, 1938) could not be mistaken about his position.

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father was a university professor, and all four of his sons went to university, with the eldest, Karl-Friedrich, pursuing an academic career. Three of Bonhoeffer’s brothers-in-law were lawyers: Rüdiger Schleicher, Hans von Dohnanyi and Gerhard Leibholz. The fourth, Walter Dress, was a theologian and pastor like Bonhoeffer himself. A sense of responsibility and duty towards society was part and parcel of Bonhoeffer’s upbringing.16 Bonhoeffer started his theological studies at the University of Tübingen, in 1923. A year later he moved back to Berlin, to continue studying at the university there, until 1927, when he finished his first doctoral thesis. In the following years Bonhoeffer worked as assistant pastor for the German community in Barcelona (1928), as assistant lecturer in Berlin (1929–30), and studied at Union Theological Seminary in New York (1930–1). As he recalled later, it was during his stay in New York that he began to realize the importance of the Sermon on the Mount for Christian life.17 His new insights affected the way he participated in the ecumenical movement, in which he became involved soon after his return from New York. At the meetings and conferences of the World Alliance Bonhoeffer was keen to address the issue of international conflict, arguing that one of the churches’ main tasks is to urge nations and governments to abandon war and seek peace.18 In the following years, Bonhoeffer became involved in the movement within the German Evangelical Church that would become known as the ‘Confessing Church’ (Bekennende Kirche). What prompted its formation was the rise of the so-called ‘German Christians’ (Deutsche Christen), who supported Nazi ideology and hailed Hitler’s political victory in 1933. They actively supported attempts to reorganize the regional churches (Landeskirchen) into a single National Church (Reichskirche), incorporated to the Nazi State apparatus. The Confessing Church movement opposed this agenda, defending the church’s freedom vis-à-vis the State. Theologically, the most important moment in their struggle was the 1934 Barmen Synod.19 During this meeting an official statement was drafted and

16

17

18

19

See Eberhard Bethge, Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Theologian – Christian – Contemporary (New York: Fount, 1985), p. 29. Bonhoeffer writes in a letter: ‘I suddenly saw as self-evident the Christian pacifism that I had recently passionately opposed.’ Quoted in Ibid., p. 155. For an assessment of what has been called Bonhoeffer’s ‘conversion’ to pacifism, see Clifford J. Green, ‘Pacifism and Tyrannicide: Bonhoeffer’s Christian Peace Ethic’, SCE 18:3 (2005), pp. 31–47 (33–40). Haynes, The Bonhoeffer Phenomenon, pp. 59–60. See Keith Clements, ‘Ecumenical Witness for Peace’, in The Cambridge Companion to Dietrich Bonhoeffer (ed. John W. de Gruchy; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 154–72. Cf. Ferdinand Schlingensiepen, Dietrich Bonhoeffer 1906–1945: Martyr, Thinker, Man of Resistance (trans. Isabel Best; London: T&T Clark, 2010), pp. 161–4.

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accepted that spoke out against State tutelage over the church, proclaiming Christ as her only Lord. The document would become known as the Barmen Declaration. Initially the Confessing Church was able to hold out against the German Christians, opposing central church authorities, but ultimately its members suffered severe measures by State authorities, who had lost faith in the national church’s inability to silence dissent. Bonhoeffer supported the cause of the Confessing Church movement by training future pastors at two of its independent (and illegal) theological seminaries. Nevertheless, it is said that Bonhoeffer alienated fellow pastors (as well as ecumenical friends) with his insistent emphasis on the Sermon on the Mount. Similarly, he was not always understood when he spoke about doctrinal and confessional orthodoxy as key concerns in their struggle. Yet for Bonhoeffer, the Confessing Church movement was not just about maintaining the church’s independence vis-à-vis the State, but rather rediscovering what it means to be a church in the first place. It is also reported that one of the few who understood him in this was his English friend George Bell. The latter, having attended the three Anglo–German theological conferences (see above), was able to appreciate the theological dimension to the conflict with Nazism.20 Despite his prominent role in the Confessing Church, and despite his confessional approach to the struggle, Bonhoeffer, as noted earlier, later changed his focus and got involved in the secret resistance movement.21 This shift was due to a change of circumstances as much as a change of mind: all independent seminaries had been closed by the Nazis. Many of the pastors within the movement, especially those trained at these seminaries, were excluded from the pastorate, and Bonhoeffer, increasingly suspect to the authorities, was no longer able to exercise his ministry. Yet Bonhoeffer was also disappointed about the extent to which the Confessing Church offered resistance to Hitler’s regime.22 He joined his brothers-in-law Hans von Dohnanyi and Rüdiger Schleicher, and offered his services to the resistance movement, which was seeking to assassinate Hitler and overturn the Nazi regime. His function as courier for the Military Intelligence (Abwehr), which he obtained via Dohnanyi, enabled him to travel 20

21

22

Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, pp. 35–6. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 298. Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, pp. 189–90. After the war Bell wrote, in a style reminiscent of Bonhoeffer, that ‘it is the function of the Church at all costs to remain the Church’. G. K. A. Bell, The Church and Humanity (1939–1946) (London: Longmans Green, 1946), p. 23. See Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment: 1940–1945 (ed. Mark S. Brocker; trans. Lisa E. Dahill; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 16, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006), pp. 1–30. Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, pp. 234–313. Cf. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, pp. 512–24. Geffrey B. Kelly and F. Burton Nelson, The Cost of Moral Leadership: The Spirituality of Dietrich Bonhoeffer (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), p. 26.

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abroad and act as a ‘double spy’. During his travels, mostly to Switzerland, he met friends from within the ecumenical organizations. This allowed him to channel sensitive information from Germany abroad and, vice versa, obtain vital intelligence for the resistance. The friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer would come to play a crucial role in these communications, as we will see in the next section.

II  The story The following account must limit itself to the key phases in the friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer, including a few relevant episodes. The aim here is to get an impression of their friendship through certain events in which they were jointly involved. A description of how their friendship evolved between 1933 and 1935 will be followed by an overview of subsequent years: a period in which Bell and Bonhoeffer met only a few times, yet maintained their friendship. Special attention will be given to an episode in 1942, as it is particularly illustrative of the friendship’s political character.23

First meeting: Novi Sad 1933 The first personal meeting between Bell and Bonhoeffer took place in 1933, in Novi Sad (Yugoslavia), when both attended a conference of the Council for Life and Work, from 9 until 12 September.24 Bell chaired this conference, whereas Bonhoeffer only joined the sessions on 13 September as a delegate from the conference of the World Alliance, which was due to convene soon in Sofia (Bulgaria).25 It was during this visit to Novi Sad that Bonhoeffer was introduced to the bishop of Chichester. If the political circumstances of their meeting were ominous for the prob­ lems soon to dominate the ecumenical movement, they also allowed Bell and Bonhoeffer quickly to recognize each other as committed to similar causes. Earlier 23

24 25

For other accounts of the friendship, see Bethge, Bonhoeffer, pp. 281–98. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, pp. 24–45. Jasper’s biography of Bell pays no special attention to the friendship, but does mention the events related here. For the correspondence between Bell and Bonhoeffer, see Peter Raina, Bishop George Bell: The Greatest Churchman – A Portrait in Letters (London: Churches Together in Britain and Ireland, 2006). Bonhoeffer had seen Bell at previous ecumenical meetings; cf. Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, p. 153. The Sofia conference was held on 15–30 September, as usual in conjunction with the Life and Work conference; see Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 24. On the early years of Bonhoeffer’s involvement in ecumenical work, see Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, pp. 81–93.

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that year, on 30 January, Hitler had been appointed chancellor of the German Republic. Later, on 27 September, Ludwig Müller would be elected to the newly created post of national bishop (Reichsbischof). Another disturbing fact was the adoption by the National Synod, earlier that year, of the ‘Aryan Paragraph’, which banned Jews from public office. The conflict that had subsequently risen within the German Evangelical Church also reflected on the Sofia and Novi Sad meetings. In Sofia, for example, Bonhoeffer challenged the German Christian faction among the German delegates, seeking to rally foreign support for the Confessing Church. In Novi Sad, Bell was dealing with similar troubles. In his position as chairman of the conference, he faced the difficult question of how to respond formally to the developments in Germany. It was clear to him that during its conference the Council had to produce a statement of protest. But for this he had to negotiate carefully with Theodor Heckel, who represented Bishop Müller. Eventually the meeting endorsed his proposal to write to Müller to communicate the council’s concerns about the situation of the German Church.26 In his letter Bell is rather candid, warning that the developments in the German church ‘must cause universal dismay, and must, if persisted in, evoke the strongest protests from the Christian Churches abroad’.27 Bell’s correspondence with Müller would continue well into the following year.28

Close cooperation: London 1933–5 In his letters to Müller and other German officials, Bell always proved to be well informed about the developments in Germany. Bell also had the habit of writing about these developments to the editor of The Times, who often published his letters, to the dismay of German officials. Thus Bell created for himself a platform from which to inform the public about what was going on in Germany. The letters published in The Times helped disclose Hitler’s real intentions to the outside world, long before these became manifest through military aggression. For up-to-date information on the German situation Bell depended on several contacts and friends within the ecumenical movement, in Germany as well as in neighbouring countries. First of all, he received information from the Life and Work secretaries based in Geneva, Hans Schönfeld and Henry Henriod. In addition, there was Alphonse Koechlin, a pastor in Basel and member of the 26 27 28

Jasper, George Bell, pp. 103–4. Quoted from Raina, George Bell, p. 79. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 26.

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Council. And since September 1933 he had also Bonhoeffer, whose information and advice proved invaluable. Crucially, in the following month, Bonhoeffer moved to South London to serve two German congregations there, in Forest Hill and Sydenham. Bonhoeffer’s arrival was fortunate for Bell: his new ‘source’ was more accessible, which allowed for closer collaboration. Bell later wrote that ‘from him, more than from any other German, I learned the true character of the conflict’.29 Bonhoeffer’s support was particularly welcome now that Bell had chosen a more confrontational style in addressing the German church authorities. Bonhoeffer’s move to London also meant that their acquaintance could grow into more than just a work relationship. Soon after he had arrived in London, on 21 and 22 November, Bonhoeffer stayed at the bishop’s home in Chichester, hosted by Bell and his wife Henrietta. Bethge, commenting on the visit, writes that it ‘introduced an element of personal and theological sympathy into an association which hitherto had been based upon church politics’.30 Their close cooperation grew into what Bell himself described later as ‘an intimate friendship’.31 In January 1934 Bell intervened again in the German church crisis. He concluded that in the light of new developments in Germany, bishop Müller’s reassuring response to his letter had been insincere.32 The immediate occasion for Bell’s intervention was the announcement of a meeting between Müller and Hitler, which Bell saw as an opportunity to draw public attention to the oppression of dissenting pastors within the German church. Not only did he write to Müller again, he also wrote a letter to The Times, published on 17 January 1934, in which he expressed once more the concerns of the member churches of the Council for Life and Work.33 In addition, he wrote a letter to the German president Hindenburg. It is not difficult to imagine Bonhoeffer’s gratitude for Bell’s action. The publication, however, prompted Theodor Heckel to travel to England, in an attempt to silence dissident voices overseas. He tried to persuade the German pastors in Great Britain to declare loyalty to Müller. It is said that it was mainly due to Bonhoeffer that he failed.34 Heckel also asked Bell to abstain from intervening in the German church crisis for 6 months, in order 29

30 31 32

33 34

From Bell’s introduction to Bonhoeffer’s The Cost of Discipleship (1948), quoted in Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 289. Ibid., p. 287. Cf. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 26. Raina, George Bell, pp. 81–2. Quoted in Rupp, ‘I seek my brethren’, p. 9. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 290. On Bell’s and Bonhoeffer’s disagreement with Hans Schönfeld and others on how to intervene, see Bethge, Bonhoeffer, pp. 284–5. For the text of the article, and Bonhoeffer’s response, see Raina, George Bell, pp. 85–7. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 30.

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to allow the crisis to subside. Bell refused to accept this proposal. Bonhoeffer’s assistance to Bell’s campaign was certainly not without risks: though working abroad, he was still accountable to the German church authorities and could face disciplinary action. So in March of that same year, Bonhoeffer was summoned to Berlin by Heckel, who in the meantime had become bishop and was now appointed head of the Church Office for External Affairs.35 Backed by his new authority, he put pressure on Bonhoeffer to leave London, yet Bonhoeffer could not be intimidated. Thus Heckel had failed again, this time in trying to isolate Bonhoeffer from his foreign friends.36 The height of the confrontation between Bell and the German church authorities is arguably the Ascension Day Message of 10 May 1934. This message was a public statement on behalf of the Council for Life and Work and sent to all member churches, pronouncing on the church crisis in Germany. Bell decided to issue this message after news of disturbing developments in Germany.37 Bonhoeffer, on his return from Berlin, had reported on the increasing suffering of the Confessing Church under Müller’s regime, backed by the Nazis. Bell felt unable to do what Bonhoeffer urged him to do, namely set Müller an ultimatum. Yet he agreed that the international church could not remain silent, especially about the oppression of dissenting pastors. Bonhoeffer, asked by Bell to proofread the draft of the message, suggested that Bell remove the appearance of impartiality in his message, especially with regard to the persecution of German pastors. Bell did not adopt all of Bonhoeffer’s suggestions, yet the wording of the final draft was more forceful.38 In the message Bell also announced the next Life and Work conference, to be held in August of that same year in Fanø (Denmark), and that the agenda would ‘inevitably include a consideration of the religious issues raised by the present situation in the German Evangelical Church’.39 Thus the German church conflict had ceased to be a merely domestic matter. Although Müller brushed off Bell’s challenge, the Ascension Day Message did cause embarrassment to the German church authorities, especially since Hitler was still keen to maintain good foreign relations and prevent international commotion about internal affairs.40 Understandably, Bell’s message was a great encouragement to the Confessing Church movement, whose leaders would soon convene in Barmen (see above). 35 36 37 38 39 40

This would later become the Ministry for Relations with the Evangelical Church. See Ibid. Ibid., p. 29. Cf. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, pp. 289–92. Jasper, George Bell, p. 106. Raina, George Bell, pp. 102–4. Cf. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, pp. 296–7. For the text of the Message, see Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, pp. 32–3. Ibid., p. 34.

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The Life and Work conference at Fanø, August 1934, was another crucial moment in the confrontation between the Council and the German church authorities. Bell took a bold step in using his prerogative as chair of the Council (in extraordinary circumstances) to invite Bonhoeffer and Karl Koch as his personal guests to the conference. Koch, who was chair of the Confessing Church, did not accept the invitation, afraid to offend the official German delegation. Bonhoeffer, however, saw the invitation as an opportunity to support the cause of the Confessing Church and accepted.41 Except for Bonhoeffer, all German delegates were representatives of the National Church authorities. Nevertheless the conference accepted a resolution that expressed the Council’s full support for the Confessing Church.42 Bonhoeffer talked on war and peace, in a lecture as well as in a sermon.43 In his sermon he championed trust as the real basis for peace-making, rather than fear and the desire for security. Thanks to Bell, then, Bonhoeffer was able to challenge the German Christians and voice the concerns of the Confessing Church before an ecumenical audience – an audience that included Heckel.44 After the Ascension Day Message, Bell continued to draw public attention to the sufferings of the Confessing Church. He managed to secure the support of Archbishop Cosmo Lang, who joined him in speaking out against the treatment of the dissenting German pastors.45 As for Bonhoeffer, in the spring of 1935 he left his ministry in London and began to teach at two independent seminaries of the Confessing Church, first at Zingst and then at Finkenwalde.

Distant friends: 1935–42 After his move back to Germany, Bonhoeffer paid three more visits to Bell in England. The first time, in May 1935, was in order to inform Bell about a secret meeting of the Confessing Church. The second time, in August of that same year, was in relation to a forthcoming Life and Work meeting. On that occasion he also briefed Bell in preparation for visits to German officials that Bell had 41

42 43

44

45

Koch and Bonhoeffer were elected ‘consultative and co-opted members’ of the Council; see Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 308. Quoted in Ibid., p. 307. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, London 1933–1935 (ed. Keith Clements; trans. Isabel Best; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 13, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), pp. 304–9. Cf. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, pp. 309–13. Just before the outbreak of the war Bonhoeffer’s words were echoed by Bell in a speech in the House of Lords, in which he urged them to seek genuine peace rather than mere guarantees; see Bell, The Church and Humanity (1939–1946), pp. 36–7. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 42.

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scheduled.46 Bonhoeffer paid his final visit to England in 1939. This time he came to ask Bell for advice on a more personal matter. Bonhoeffer feared being conscripted into the army, feeling unable to swear the obligatory oath of loyalty to Hitler. They discussed the matter at Bell’s home. Bell came with a solution: via friends he arranged for Bonhoeffer to stay in New York. Bonhoeffer went and soon after arriving in New York he was offered the opportunity to work as a pastor among German refugees. A month later, however, he was back in Germany. In a letter to Bell he explained why he felt it was not right for him to live in safety abroad, while his fellow Germans were facing such hardship.47 Soon after Bonhoeffer returned to Germany, Hitler invaded Poland: the beginning of what was to become World War II. The war situation meant it became more difficult for Bell and Bonhoeffer to meet, and with Bonhoeffer getting involved in the resistance, it became increasingly dangerous for them to communicate directly. For this they relied on a network of friends and colleagues, mostly within the ecumenical movement.48 Geneva functioned as the main hub of this network, since it was there that the offices of the World Alliance were based. W. A. Visser ’t Hooft, the general secretary of the Alliance, functioned as a key messenger.49 At home, Bell was occupied with his political campaigns – initially for peace in Europe but, after this had become unrealistic, against the economic blockade of the continent, the systematic bombings of German cities, and the demonizing of Germany in general (see above).50 During all this he was anxious, of course, to stay in touch with the ‘other Germany’ he often spoke about. His main informant of the developments in Germany was Alphonse Koechlin in Basel. As for Bonhoeffer, it was during his travels to Switzerland that letters could be exchanged. For security reasons, however, these could not contain more than cordialities and a few coded messages.51 Bonhoeffer’s letters to Bell contain references to Bonhoeffer’s twin sister Sabine and her husband Gerhard Leibholz. Because of Leibholz’s ‘non-Aryan’ ethnicity, they had left Germany in September 1938, just in time to escape the outburst of violence against the Jews on 9 November (Kristallnacht). They found 46

47 48 49 50 51

For Bell’s visits to Joachim von Ribbentrop, Rudolf Hess and Hans Kerrl (Minister for Church Affairs), see Ibid., p. 44. For Bell’s earlier meeting with Ribbentrop in London, in 1934, see Raina, George Bell, p. 118. See: Raina, George Bell, pp. 166–7. Cf. correspondence published in Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 70. Ibid., pp. 74–83. For Bonhoeffer’s letters to Bell, see Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment, pp. 167, 193, 223, 285. Bell’s letters to Bonhoeffer are not extant, and were probably destroyed.

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refuge in England and followed Bonhoeffer’s advice to seek contact with Bell. Soon Bell invited them to his home. He helped them find a place to live, and assisted Gerhard, a highly esteemed lawyer, in publishing his work and obtaining an academic post. Bell’s friendship implied crucial support for the Leibholz family, especially in 1940 when Gerhard was interned, together with thousands of other German refugees (see above).52 And then there was Franz Hildebrandt: a friend and fellow pastor of Bonhoeffer’s, and like Leibholz of Jewish origin. Hildebrandt had moved to England earlier, when Bonhoeffer himself still lived in London, and had shared in Bonhoeffer’s friendship with Bell.53 Thus Bonhoeffer had a circle of family and friends abroad supporting him and his increasingly dangerous work.

Secret meeting: May–June 1942 After their meeting in 1939, Bell and Bonhoeffer would see each other only one more time, during 31 May and 1 June 1942, in Sweden.54 This meeting was not only in secret but also, as far as Bell was concerned, unexpected. Bell had travelled to Sweden as a member of a delegation representing British society, sent by the government as part of a programme of restoring political ties with neutral Sweden. Bell’s first surprise came while he was staying at the British Legation in Stockholm: on 26 May, he was visited by Hans Schönfeld, a German pastor who worked at the Life and Work offices in Geneva.55 Although in Geneva he acted as representative of the National Church authorities, Schönfeld in fact had close contacts with the resistance. The resistance, however, was not a single organization but rather consisted of a loose conglomeration of groups. What is more, there was a fair amount of distrust and even hostility between these groups. Schönfeld’s contacts were mainly with a network within the Church External Affairs Office and, via that network, with a group operating from the Foreign Office, also known as the ‘Kreisau Circle’.56 When the news about Bell’s travel to Sweden had reached them, it was decided that Schönfeld should go 52

53

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55 56

On the friendship between Bell and Leibholz, and their correspondence, see Eberhard Bethge and Ronald Jasper, An der Schwelle zum Gespaltenem Europa (Stuttgart-Berlin: Kreuz Verlag, 1974). See also Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, pp. 63–5. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, pp. 92, 289. On the friendship between Hildebrandt and Bonhoeffer, see Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, p. 60. See Bethge, Bonhoeffer, pp. 661–9. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, pp. 84–8. Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, pp. 289–92. For related correspondence, see Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment, pp. 289–330. Raina, George Bell, pp. 230–41. Raina, George Bell, p. 90. Cf. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, pp. 574, 654, 663.

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and visit him there: his mission was to convey important and highly sensitive intelligence to Bell, and ask him to inform the government in London about it. The sensitivity of the information was such that Schönfeld could not carry any documents. Schönfeld managed to get hold of Bell in Stockholm. What he revealed to him was a detailed account of the German resistance, including details of the plans and preparations for the assassination of Hitler and a subsequent coup, all of which was meant to show that the resistance effort was now gathering serious momentum.57 Contrary to common perception abroad, Schönfeld assured Bell, the majority of the military elite in Germany despised Hitler. And since his reckless decision to invade the Soviet Union, in June 1941, generals had begun to see the need to get rid of him. But the opposition extended beyond military circles, Schönfeld told Bell: it included key civil servants, leaders of trade unions and workers’ organizations, and substantial blocks within the Protestant and Catholic Churches. Though carried out by the military, the coup would be in order to re-establish civil government and the rule of law. Another important aim was to initiate peace negotiations with the Allied nations. What the resistance sought to secure in advance, Schönfeld explained, was a guarantee from the Allies that they would acknowledge the difference between the Nazis and a new German government, and conduct peace negotiations on that basis. Especially within military circles there was fear of another humiliating treaty, like the 1918 Treaty of Versailles. It was of great importance, then, to inform the Allies in time about the scale of the resistance and the seriousness of its plans. But, Schönfeld warned, if there was to be no positive response, and therefore no hope for reasonable peace negotiations, the generals would deem the costs and risks of a coup too high, and instead choose to continue fighting under Hitler.58 Their choice was crucial since an Allied victory, as Schönfeld reminded Bell, was far from certain. The resistance had decided that Bell, given his position in British society, was the right person to communicate the information to the British government. Bell was impressed by the information Schönfeld conveyed, yet was not altogether sure whether he could trust him, since he worked for the External 57

58

For Bell’s account of his meeting with Schönfeld, see Raina, George Bell, pp. 230–2. Bell’s original diary notes are published in Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment, pp. 290–3. For Schönfeld’s statement, see Raina, George Bell, pp. 237–41. The same text is also published in Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment, pp. 306–10. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 88. Cf. W. A. Visser ’t Hooft comments on William Paton’s book The Church and the New Order (1941), written in collaboration with Bonhoeffer (September 1941), in Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment, pp. 534–5, 537–9.

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Affairs Office of the German National Church.59 Back at the British Legation in Stockholm, he discussed the matter with Victor Mallet, the minister residing there. He added to Bell’s doubts by warning that the Nazis might be using Schönfeld as a ‘peace-feeler’, to test Britain’s appetite for a negotiated peace. A few days later, after having seen Schönfeld for a second time, Bell visited Archbishop Eidem in Uppsala. The latter confided to Bell he was convinced of Schönfeld’s sincerity, but thought he ‘was too wishful in his thinking’.60 A few days later, however, Bell’s doubts were taken away. On 31 May Bell travelled to the Nordic Ecumenical Institute at Sigtuna, near Stockholm, and to his great surprise he was visited there by Bonhoeffer – whom he had not seen for almost 3 years. Bonhoeffer had travelled to Sweden with a similar purpose to Schönfeld’s. Behind this ‘double mission’ of Schönfeld and Bonhoeffer by the resistance movement lay the internal divisions and distrust mentioned earlier. Whereas Schönfeld was primarily associated with Gerstenmaier and the Kreisau Circle, Bonhoeffer was linked to the so-called ‘Berlin Circle’, which included his brother-in-law Dohnanyi and General Hans Oster, and which operated through the Military Intelligence.61 On learning that Schönfeld had set out to meet Bell, they decided to send Bonhoeffer as well.62 Yet, despite the level of distrust, Bonhoeffer’s information matched what Schönfeld had conveyed a few days earlier. Bonhoeffer added only one vital piece of information to that which Schönfeld had already given: asked by Bell, he listed the names of the key leaders within the movement, many of whom were well known abroad.63 After their private talk they were joined by Harry Johansson (the Director of the Sigtuna Institute), Manfred Björquist, Nils Ehrenström and Schönfeld, who had arrived in the meantime. In this group they continued to discuss the matters reported by Bonhoeffer and Schönfeld, and proposed a plan of action. Schönfeld emphasized, as he had done before, the importance of securing fair peace negotiations for post-Nazi Germany. In line with his earlier warning that an Allied victory was far from certain, he referred to the vast Russian territory now occupied by Germany, hinting at how Germany’s military power should not be underestimated – with or without Hitler. He suggested that the Allies had a 59

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Robertson comments that Bell ‘did not know that Schönfeld was a very brave man who had come to Sweden via Geneva and had taken very great risks’. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 86. Raina, George Bell, p. 233. Robertson notes, however, that Bonhoeffer also ‘attached himself ’ to the Kreisau Circle; see Dietrich Bonhoeffer, True Patriotism. Letters, Lectures and Notes 1939–1945 (trans. Edwin H. Robertson and John Bowden; The Collected Works, vol. III, London: Collins, 1973), p. 168. About the background of the double mission, see Bethge, Bonhoeffer, pp. 662–4. Concerning General Ludwig Beck and Carl Goerdeler, former Lord Mayor of Leipzig, Bonhoeffer added that ‘a rising led by them would be taken very seriously’. Raina, George Bell, p. 234.

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moral responsibility towards the occupied nations of Europe to contribute to an early end to the war. He also suggested that, with Allied support, a peace deal between Stalin and a new German government might be reached.64 ‘Here Bonhoeffer broke in,’ as Bell would later put it,65 telling them his ‘Christian conscience’ was not at ease with Schönfeld’s ideas. In his diary, Bell renders Bonhoeffer’s words as follows: ‘There must be punishment by God. We should not be worthy, of such a solution. We do not want to escape repentance. Our action to be such as will be understood as act of repentance and spoken out.’66 It was especially this emphasis on repentance that persuaded Bell to support the German resistance.67 He agreed to act as messenger to London and do whatever he could to win the government’s support. At the end of their talks, the men agreed on the codes to be used in communicating a British response, via Visser ’t Hooft in Geneva. The following day, on 1 June, Bell and Bonhoeffer met again – in fact, for the very last time. Bell, as soon as he had returned from Sweden, contacted a civil servant at the Foreign Office. On his advice Bell wrote to Anthony Eden, the foreign secretary, who received him on 30 June. Bell gave him Schönfeld’s statement as well as his own ‘Memorandum of Conversations’.68 Eden, however, had the same misgivings about the story as Victor Mallet in Stockholm. He told Bell that the government was wary of a peace-feeler from the Nazis, and that it had not seen enough signs of serious opposition in Germany to take Bell’s intelligence seriously. The government saw no other condition for peace than Germany’s ‘[t]otal defeat and disarmament’.69 Eden sent his definitive response on 17 July, stating that, though he did not doubt the ‘bona fides’ of Bell’s informants, he was ‘satisfied that it would not be in the national interest for any reply whatever to be sent to them’.70 Thus the attempt to ally the Allies to the German resistance failed; Bell had to send a disappointing coded message to Geneva. The resistance went ahead with its plans regardless; yet all attempts to assassinate Hitler failed: on 13 and 21 March 1943, and again on 20 July 1944. It was after this third attempt that 64 65 66

67 68

69

70

Schönfeld’s position has been associated with the Kreisau Circle; cf. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 667. Raina, George Bell, p. 234. Bell notes that Schönfeld agreed, though not without stating new conditions; see Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment, pp. 300–1. For the relevant passage in Bell’s notes, see also Appendix 1. Cf. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 667. Raina, George Bell, pp. 244–9. The same text is published in Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment, pp. 319–24. For Schönfeld’s statement, see Ibid., pp. 306–10. Raina, George Bell, pp. 237–41. Minutes of Bell’s visit at Foreign Office, quoted in Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment, p. 326. For Eden’s response, see Raina, George Bell, pp. 250–1.

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the Gestapo managed to arrest a large number of members of the resistance, in addition to Bonhoeffer, who was already in prison. Many of those arrested and executed were on the list Bonhoeffer had given to Bell 2 years earlier.71 Tragically, it was only after the news of their deaths reached England that their reputation was vindicated. Bonhoeffer’s final words recorded on paper are addressed to Bell. On 9 April 1945, before he was taken away to be hanged, he left a message with a British fellow prisoner: Tell him that for me this is the end but also the beginning – with him I believe in the principle of our Universal Christian brotherhood which rises above all national interests, and that our victory is certain – tell him too that I have never forgotten his words at our last meeting.72

In Berlin, Bonhoeffer’s parents learned about his death as they listened to a BBC broadcast of the memorial service for Bonhoeffer, held by Bell (and others) on 27 July in Holy Trinity Church, Kingsway, London.73

III  The friendship After this outline of Bell and Bonhoeffer’s common story, it will be useful to attempt a provisional characterization of their friendship. The first thing to consider is the extent to which their friendship was shaped by the crises of the 1930s and 1940s, in Germany and in Europe more broadly. Here we are clearly not dealing with the more common type of friendship as hinted at in the previous chapter – that is, friendship sustained by, say, regular meals, club evenings, sport training or pub visits. Indeed, from its very beginning, the friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer was determined by politics. And by ‘politics’ is meant here not any politics intrinsic to their friendship, but rather the ‘outside’ politics of power shifts in government and civil society, church crises and eventually war. The level at which these conflicts set the agenda for their meetings surely makes their friendship a rather unusual one. Not only does this make it more difficult to use their story as an example of friendship more generally; it also makes it more difficult to use their example to trace the politics intrinsic to their friendship. For while Bell and Bonhoeffer’s friendship clearly has a strong political ‘flavour’, 71 72 73

Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 96. Raina, George Bell, p. 284. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, pp. 833–4.

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this dimension is not necessarily what this study seeks to explore. Indeed, the national and international politics in which their friendship is steeped may well be a distraction from the kind of politics that this study seeks to identify – in friendship itself. While there is thus reason to be cautious in focusing on the overtly political dimension of their friendship, one should at the same time be careful not to overestimate the political influence of Bell and Bonhoeffer during the 1930s and 1940s. Bonhoeffer soon became isolated and marginalized within the German church. In terms of his participation in the resistance, he operated from a relatively low position in the Military Intelligence. As for Bell, his influence as Bishop and Lord Spiritual at Westminster was limited, as is illustrated by the lack of support for his protests against the government’s war policy, or indeed his exchange with Anthony Eden. In fact, it was Bonhoeffer who tended to over-estimate his friend’s influence.74 Similarly, as the chair of the Council of Life and Work (and its executive committee), Bell could not do much beyond organizing conferences and issuing statements.75 With respect to the crisis in the German church, the best he could do was inform the public, rally support for oppressed pastors and cause embarrassment in Germany. Bell knew that such embarrassment involved risks for the pastors he wanted to support, which meant he could only operate very carefully.

A Ciceronian friendship? Apart from the friendship’s overtly political context, are we not dealing here with an instance of Meilaender’s ‘civic friendship’ after all? Is it an instance of friendship grounded in what Derrida terms the ‘Ciceronian logic’?76 The first thing to note about Bell and Bonhoeffer is the extent to which they resembled each other. They had plenty in common, of course. Both were Protestant Christians and both served as pastors in their respective denominations. They also had comparable social backgrounds. Bell, educated at Westminster School and Christ Church, Oxford, is said to have appreciated Bonhoeffer’s civilized manners.77 Both were prepared by their upbringing and education for public office and leadership. Furthermore, Bell and Bonhoeffer were committed to similar or complementary causes, and thus were natural allies within the 74 75 76 77

Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 28. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 288. See Chapter 1, Section III. ‘Bell liked the well-brought-up young German.’ Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 288.

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ecumenical movement. Indeed, by the time they met in September 1933, both supported what was then commonly referred to as ‘Christian pacifism’. Their acquaintance could thus be construed as being ‘useful’: a strategic alliance. Or perhaps their friendship was rather the by-product of strategic collaboration. Thus one can easily imagine how at their first meeting in 1933, Bell, the chairman of Life and Work, was keen to befriend Bonhoeffer, a promising young theologian and articulate opponent of the German Christians. Similarly, one can imagine how Bonhoeffer was keen to be acquainted with a senior figure within the ecumenical movement, an English bishop with a seat in the House of Lords.78 Furthermore, with respect to the political dimension of friendship, the friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer not only functioned within a wider network of friends, but was also shaped by a ‘common enemy’. Initially the enemies were the pro-Nazi German Christians; subsequently, the enemies were the Nazi regime in Germany, and the ‘hawkish’ party at Westminster (led by Lord Vansittart), implacably opposed to Germany as a whole, and reciprocating Hitler’s ‘total war’ (totaler Krieg).79 These elements of ‘similarity’, ‘mutual benefit’ and ‘common enemy’ could easily be used to construe an image of ‘Ciceronian’ friendship, operating according to the logic of partial interests. However, it is not difficult to see how such an interpretation would fail to do justice to the whole story. First of all, what motivated Bell and Bonhoeffer in their joint campaigning was peace, and a new international order based on genuine trust. It is difficult to miss the contrast between these motives, and the partisan dynamic exposed by Meilaender and Derrida. By the same token, what should also be dismissed is the notion that opposition to a ‘common enemy’ in itself provided a rationale to their friendship. Furthermore, the resemblance between Bell and Bonhoeffer is balanced by various differences. First of all, there is the difference in age (23 years) and seniority. When Bonhoeffer first met Bell, in 1933, he might have been considered a rising star, yet he attended the Sofia conference as a youth delegate. Bell, on the other hand, was chairman of both the Council and the executive committee of Life and Work, and already a bishop. It is no surprise, then, that Bonhoeffer tended to address Bell rather reverently, always beginning his letters with ‘My Lord Bishop’.80 This asymmetry is also apparent when Bonhoeffer visits Chichester 78 79

80

Cf. Ibid., p. 287. Hannah Arendt, Was ist Politik? (München: Piper, 1993), p. 87. Hannah Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem. A Report on the Banality of Evil (Middlesex: Penguin, 1994), p. 52. Cf. R. H. S. Crossman, ‘Introduction’ in Walter Bagehot, The English Constitution (London: Collins/Fontana, 1973), p. 56. Bell referred to Bonhoeffer and Hildebrandt as ‘my two boys’. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 289.

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for the last time, in 1939, to ask Bell for advice on the matter of army service: we see a young man turn to an older colleague for pastoral direction.81 Bell and Bonhoeffer differed in character, too. Bell, though unshakeable, is described as gentle, cautious and actually rather shy. Bonhoeffer, on the other hand, came across as passionate and forthright, not afraid of conflict.82 Yet despite all these differences, Bell always referred to Bonhoeffer as his ‘friend’.83 Of course, the factor of ‘difference’ cannot in itself dispel suspicions of ‘Ciceronian’ dynamics. Indeed, difference allows for complementariness, just as asymmetry invites patronage – both of which are compatible with partisanship. Yet even if all differences and similarities between Bell and Bonhoeffer were to be carefully listed and balanced, then this would still not capture the entire story of their friendship.84

Interpreting the story In exploring the political character and significance of the friendship, in line with the focus of this study, it will be important to determine what the friends did, rather than establish the degree to which they acted according to a partisan dynamic. To some extent, this takes us back to the political events surrounding and shaping their friendship – yet this time from a different perspective. The question is no longer whether and to what extent the friends’ acting together mattered within the greater political drama of national and international crises (e.g., ‘what was their influence over government policy or public opinion?’). Instead, the question now concerns the significance of their actions in their own right – albeit in the context of political events and developments. Can we see political significance in the dynamics of the friendship itself – directly or indirectly, in support of, or perhaps in contrast to, the broader political drama? The secret meeting at Sigtuna, in May 1942 (see above), might provide useful hints concerning political significance that does not primarily consist in political ‘influence’. Of course, reading the various accounts of this episode, 81

82 83

84

Robertson observes that Bell was like a father to Bonhoeffer; see Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 28. Cf. Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, pp. 222, 233. Cf. Slack, George Bell, pp. 26–7. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 28. Cf. Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 28. Bethge observes that ‘only friendship could render tolerable the demands they made upon each other’. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 287. Cf. the narrative character of Robertson’s account: ‘Bonhoeffer was completely satisfied that he had found an influential companion and father in George Bell.  .  .  . Bell could not have had a better informant and he soon saw the quality of Bonhoeffer’s mind as well as his complete integrity. He trusted him totally.’ Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 27.

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one cannot help but imagine the potential of this meeting to change the course of events dramatically during World War II. Bell, Bonhoeffer and the other four pastors must have realized this as well: success in establishing a secret alliance between London and the resistance would affect the lives of millions. Furthermore, it seems that the role of the two friends, Bell and Bonhoeffer, was particularly crucial. Not only were they both well positioned to function as go-betweens between the German resistance and the British government; it was also Bonhoeffer who had given Bell the highly sensitive list of names, an act of trust that in turn persuaded Bell to lend his support. Had the government in London been persuaded to throw its support behind the resistance – boosting its morale and thereby increasing its chances of overthrowing Hitler’s regime and initiating peace negotiations – then arguably any peace process thus initiated would ultimately have been the fruit of friendship. However, questions as to what could have happened, as Ronald Jasper rightly observes, ‘belong to the imponderables of history’.85 It is impossible to ignore such possibilities, of course: ‘The past will have to be examined in regard of its own future.’86 It was with these possibilities in mind that the six pastors at Sigtuna deliberated and acted as they did. Yet potential political consequences alone are not sufficient for establishing the political nature of the meeting – or indeed the role friendship played in it. In fact, more important and interesting than the friends’ potential to influence political events is the dynamics of their friendship as such: aspects of their interaction on account of which their friendship became a potentially crucial political factor in the first place. One could argue that at Sigtuna the element of friendship was crucial precisely insofar as it challenged the more conventional political practice of diplomacy. We saw that Schönfeld’s arguments took for granted arguments based on national self-interest, and added pressure by reminding the others of Germany’s persisting military power. Bonhoeffer, by contrast, divulged even more sensitive information than Schönfeld had done, while refusing to play the diplomatic game of ‘stick and carrot’. Nonetheless it was Bonhoeffer rather than Schönfeld who persuaded Bell to cooperate: trust and vulnerability prevailed over calculation and caution. Thus the spirit of friendship provided a real basis for a future alliance, even if other factors would eventually conspire to undermine the plan agreed at Sigtuna. Indeed, despite the prevalence of diplomacy and calculation in (international) politics, no agreement, alliance or peace treaty will 85 86

Jasper, George Bell, p. 281. Jürgen Moltmann, Theology of Hope (London: SCM, 1967), p. 269.

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last without at least a modicum of trust. Yet, again, the main point is not whether in this particular case friendship did actually contribute to such an alliance (as a matter of historical fact), but rather that friendship provided the resources for making such a contribution in the first place.

‘Parapolitics’ What are the right terms to describe this ‘resourcefulness’ of the friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer? Or rather: how should one describe the political dimension of their friendship, a dimension that meant their friendship had the resources for functioning as the ‘missing link’ in an unlikely peace campaign? The previous chapter identified three ways in which the dynamics of friendship might be ‘parapolitical’: friendship might function parallel to or in support of political processes, or even constitute a beginning thereof. To what extent do these concepts help in interpreting the friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer, and the Sigtuna episode in particular? First, with regard to the notion of parallelism, one might observe that, supported by their friendship, both Bell and Bonhoeffer decided to accept great and heavy responsibilities. Bell agreed to try and intervene in the political process in Westminster, and Bonhoeffer agreed to reveal the sensitive list of names of key people in the resistance movement. Furthermore, we could say that such heavy responsibilities are ‘analogous’ to the kind of responsibility typically involved in government and political decision-making. However, the interesting point is perhaps not that Bell and Bonhoeffer did something ‘similar’ to what politicians do routinely, but rather that they made their own, independent steps towards a negotiated peace – that is, steps towards what might have been a reasonable objective of national politics (even if deemed unrealistic by many). Indeed, their efforts in seeking peace ran parallel to governmental efforts, either in waging war or in seeking peace. Such parallel action might be at the expense of government action and the political process as well as in support of these. In the case of the Sigtuna meeting, the latter seems to apply: the agreement supported a policy perceived to be in the best interests of both Westminster and the German people (if not Germany’s Nazi regime). The agreement, based on the trust borne out of friendship, was intended to support a political process that would be required for a negotiated peace between the Allies and a future post-Nazi German government. One could  even  argue that it was impossible for such a process to evolve without the kind of trust exemplified by Bell and Bonhoeffer. Which takes us to a third

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dimension: friendship as a beginning of politics. The process of initiating and carrying out peace negotiations – normally involving political deliberation, policy-making and diplomatic preparation – had in fact already started in the discussions and decisions at Sigtuna: the friends had not only identified a ‘road map’ to be adopted by political authorities, but had taken the first steps on the road itself. The chief decision to be taken by the relevant political authorities, then, was whether they dared to enter into an alliance already forged in friendship. Finally, it should be noted that at Sigtuna the friends also went beyond what can be expected from governments and political processes. True, in their deliberations they arguably supported and prepared for future government action and political processes; yet to the extent that they were deliberating as friends, they already enjoyed the peace that governments might have been seeking, but were still far from securing.87 The above is only an initial attempt to interpret the friendship of Bell and Bonhoeffer’s friendship, in the light of my reflections in the previous chapter. What has been sketched in rough outline will be explored in more detail in the remaining chapters – from the perspectives of political philosophy and Christian political thought. In this exercise the Sigtuna episode will function as a prominent point of reference in interpreting the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer. The explorations in the following chapters will thus build on the discussion of that episode in this chapter. The distinct character of this study lies in the fact that it focuses on a friendship story, one in which narrative – and thus action – outweighs logic. In seeking to reflect further on the political significance of our chosen friendship story, it therefore seems appropriate to turn to Aristotle and then to Hannah Arendt: two political philosophers who take ‘action’ very seriously.

87

Note that ‘beyond’ is one of the possible meanings of the prefix ‘para’. Cf. Chapter 1, Section II.

3

Common Action

With the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer now established as a frame of reference, this chapter will proceed to explore, at a more conceptual level, the way in which friendship might be politically significant. It will do so, first, by taking up a suggestion made in Chapter 1, namely that friendship has the potential, perhaps more than other social units such as families, to resemble public life in terms of the common good(s) defining it. Given its ‘openness’ to a wide range of social goods, I have argued, friendship belongs as much in the public realm as in the private, functioning as an important pillar of public life and discourse, and potentially even fulfilling a role in politics. This chapter will explore this suggestion further in dialogue with Aristotle and Hannah Arendt: two philosophers separated in time by more than two millennia, and both interested in friendship as well as politics. The particular works focused on are Chapters VIII and IX of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (Section I), and Hannah Arendt’s The Human Condition (Section II). The final section will consider how the insights articulated in these works might help in interpreting the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer.

I  Aristotle: Friendship in the city Aristotle already featured briefly in Chapter 1, which considered his account of the ‘good life’ as presented in the Politics – albeit in the less than favourable light of Meilaender’s critique. Here, however, the focus will be on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, and particularly those passages that place friendship in a political light, in ways that do not (necessarily) raise the kind of theological suspicions such as articulated by Meilaender. Certainly, insofar as Aristotle’s social ethics presupposes an aristocratic and strictly hierarchical political society, his understanding of friendship can be expected to betray the same

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logic that Derrida detected in Cicero’s friendship ideal.1 This section, however, will focus on a passage in the Nicomachean Ethics where Aristotle speaks about friendship and its political dimensions in a way that takes us beyond Ciceronian logic. Friendship is presented here as politically significant, not because it cements the city’s socio-political order, but rather on account of the process of interaction underlying it. Before turning to the key passage, it will be useful to introduce the content and structure of Aristotle’s discussion of friendship.

Content and structure Aristotle’s discussion of friendship can be found in Books VIII and IX of the Ethics: preceding his discussion of the contemplative life (and of pleasure) in Book X, and following his discussion of the object and method of ethics, of the virtues (and vices), justice, prudence and pleasure, in Books I–VII. In the first six chapters of Book VIII Aristotle develops a definition of friendship. Having introduced the theme of friendship (jilίa) in Chapter 1, Aristotle states in Chapter 2 that we love (jilέw) something, or someone, because it is ‘lovable’ (jilήtoV),2 and that it is lovable on account of some inherent quality: because it is either good, pleasant or useful. Now for such love to be friendship, rather than love for inanimate things, there must be some ‘return of affection’ (ἀntijilήsiV). Friendship requires that goodwill is mutual.3 Furthermore, this goodwill must be more than the abstract benevolence we might feel for strangers; in order to be friends, people must be aware of each other’s goodwill. Finally, given the various qualities mentioned above, friends love each other for their goodness, their pleasantness, or their usefulness. And thus in Chapter 3 Aristotle proceeds to distinguish three types of friendship, each of these revolving around one of the three lovable qualities.4 Some friendships are based on utility, others are defined by the pleasure they bring; yet a third category is friendship ‘between the good’ (tῶn ἀgaqῶn). This is friendship between ‘those 1 2

3 4

Cf. Chapter 1, Section III. Unless stated otherwise, translations are taken from Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics (ed. Jeffrey Henderson; trans. H. Rackham; The Loeb Classical Library, vol. 73, Harvard: Harvard University Press, 1934). Cf. Chapter 1, Section I. Price comments that Aristotle, like Plato, views friendship ‘against the general background of the structure of human desire.’ A. W. Price, Love and Friendship in Plato and Aristotle (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), p. 10.

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who resemble each other in virtue’ (kat’ ἀretῆn ὁmoiῶn).5 Of this third type Aristotle says (like Cicero) that it is rare, requiring the friends to spend much time together. For Aristotle, as for Cicero, this type is superior to utility and pleasure friendships: friendship can only be perfect (teleίa) when it does not revolve around either usefulness or pleasure alone, but merely includes these as a facilitator (utility) and a result (pleasure) of a virtuous life. Utility and pleasure, then, should contribute to the friends’ common life rather than dominate it.6 While Aristotle thus distinguishes between kinds of friendship in terms of their moral quality, his definition is at the same time sufficiently inclusive for him to consider virtually all kinds of relationships to be forms of friendship, including those who never attain the level of perfection of virtue friendship. The second half of Book VIII (Chapters 7–14) deals with these less than perfect friendships, most notably friendships between people who have different interests in the relationship. Such ‘unequal’ friendships are located in the spheres of charity (8), justice (9), political constitutions (10–11) and family (12). In Chapters 13–14 Aristotle addresses the issue of justice in unequal friendships, which is continued in the first three chapters of Book IX. It is only in Chapter 4 of Book IX that Aristotle returns to perfect friendship. So in Chapters 4–8 he gives a more detailed account of this kind of friendship. The main themes here are the friend as ‘another self ’ (4), goodwill (5), concord (6) and self-love (8). Finally, in Chapters 9–12, Aristotle addresses the question as to whether and why perfectly virtuous men – who, after all, are deemed to be self-sufficient – still need friends.

Friendship and the city Before turning to the passage that will be central to the discussion in this section  – the passage where Aristotle speaks of ‘political friendship’ – it will be useful to consider two earlier passages in which friendship appears in a political light.7 As the above summary of Books VIII and IX already suggests, 5

6

7

Virtue cannot be an ‘object’ of jilίa in the same way as utility or pleasure can; cf. John M. Cooper, ‘Aristotle on Friendship’, in Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics (ed. Amélie Oksenberg Rorty; London: University of California Press, 1980), pp. 301–40 (310–11). Aristotle seems not to imply the other two friendships are altogether without virtue: at the beginning of Book VIII he writes that ‘friend­ ship is a virtue, or involves virtue’ (1155a2). Cf. Stephen Salkever, ‘Taking Friendship Seriously: Aristotle on the Place(s) of Philia in Human Life’, in Friendship & Politics: Essays in Political Thought (ed. John von Heyking and Richard Avramenko; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), pp. 53–83 (64). There is, in fact, a political agenda underlying the Ethics as a whole: ethics is deemed a ‘political’ science (1094a27–b11), with its findings to be applied in legislation (1181b16–23).

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Aristotle sees forms of friendship functioning at all levels of Greek society. There  is  friendship  in family life as well as public life, between noble citizens as well as merchants. So, generally, one might say that all these friendships – friendships of various kinds – together form the larger community of the city. Friendship is the ‘glue’, as it were, holding together the constituent parts of the city. Yet there is a passage at the beginning of Book VIII where Aristotle goes a step further. In line with Chapter 9 of that same book8 (yet this time referring explicitly to friendship), he implies that friendship holds together not only these constituent parts but the entire city as well: Aristotle observes that ‘friendship appears to be the bond of the state’ (1155a23).9 He goes on to point out that a city needs ‘concord’ (ὁmόnoia) and must by all means avoid ‘faction’ (stάsiV). Concord, Aristotle says, is ‘something akin to friendship’ (1155a25). It is for this reason that lawgivers consider friendship even more valuable than justice. For ‘if men are friends, there is no need of justice between them; whereas merely to be just is not enough – a feeling of friendship also is necessary’ (1155a27–8).10 Aristotle does not imply, of course, that there is no justice in friendship; what he means is rather that friendships would not survive if friends were only interested in getting what each of them thinks is his due. The interests of friendship are above and beyond individual interests.11 And this is exactly why lawgivers are keen to devise laws that will cultivate friendship among citizens, as Aristotle points out here. If there were no such city-wide friendship at all, citizens would never stop quarrelling about what was due to each of them individually; there would be nothing held in common, governing and sometimes overruling their individual interests.

City friendship Let us now turn to our key passage, in Chapter 6 of Book IX. Here Aristotle speaks of politikὴ jilίa (1167b2): ‘city friendship’, ‘friendship pertaining to the polis’, or indeed ‘political friendship’.12 Aristotle uses the term here to describe that concord, or ‘unanimity’ (ὁmόnoia), which he suggested earlier   8   9 10 11

12

See Chapter 1, Section III. ‘State’ is Rackham’s translation of pόliV (‘city’). Cf. Eudemian Ethics 1234b22–30. See also NE 1163a24–b14 (VIII 14), where Aristotle deals with justice in unequal friendships. For Aquinas on equalization in our friendship with God, see Daniel Schwartz, Aquinas on Friendship (Oxford Philosophical Monographs, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 123–41. For a detailed analysis of ‘political friendship’ in the context of both NE and Politics, see Paul Schollmeier, Other Selves: Aristotle on Personal and Political Friendship (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994), pp. 75–96.

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is required for a city if it is not to disintegrate into smaller factions (VIII 1). Now, as was argued in Chapter 1, one can imagine what such political friendship might look like, in the light of Aristotle’s vision of civic in the Politics: at its best it denotes harmony between the classes of the city. More realistically, however, it would denote concord only among those who mostly benefit from the city’s existence, and who are actually in charge of it. This ambiguity seems to be confirmed by Aristotle’s examples of political friendship. In referring to cases when ‘both the common people and the upper classes wish that the best people shall rule’ (1167b1), he clearly assumes agreement between the different classes. Yet in referring to cases when ‘citizens unanimously decree that the offices of state shall be elective, or that an alliance shall be made with Sparta, or that Pittacus shall be dictator’ (1167a31–2), what he seems to have in mind is agreement among the elites only. For in Aristotle’s world ‘citizens’ (polίteiV) are free, slave-owning men participating in the city’s governance on the basis of their social status.13 Closer attention to the Greek suggests, however, that Aristotle is not making such distinctions here. Rackham’s translation in the Loeb edition suggests that in the second quotation Aristotle is referring to ‘citizens’ in its technical sense. But the Greek simply reads ὅtan pάsi dokῇ, ‘when it seems right to everyone’. The crucial question, of course, is how inclusive this ‘everyone’ is. As for the first quotation, one might argue that when the ‘common people’ (ὁ dῆmoV) and ‘the upper classes’ (oἱ ἐpieikeῖV) can agree on the matters mentioned, both parties have a share in political decision-making. Thus it is at least suggested that political friendship is more substantial than a political deal struck by the elites and imposed on the lower classes. Our main topic, however, is not so much friendly dynamics in politics (e.g., ‘civic friendship’) as political dynamics in friendship. And given this focus, it is important to note the wider context of Aristotle’s reference to ‘political friendship’. We saw that this phrase is meant to explain concord in the city. Yet the discussion of political concord is itself an excursus within Chapter 6 as a whole, where Aristotle’s main objective is to describe how concord is a feature of friendship as such, and then perfect friendship in particular, or friendship between ‘good men’ (1167b5). Concord ‘exists between good men, since these are of one mind both with themselves and with one another’ (1167b5–6). The examples of city-wide concord are meant to illustrate this unanimity between virtuous friends. The analogy works both ways, of course. Yet one of the things 13

Cf. Pol. 1275a5–18.

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Aristotle seems to suggest here is that if concord is a political virtue, then it is nevertheless at home in friendship.14 But how can an entire city enjoy the kind of concord that applies to the friendship of a few ‘good men’ – friends who typically belong to the class of noble citizens?15 How can friendly unanimity be remotely similar to the formal ties that bind together leisurely citizens with workmen, housebound women (and children) and especially slaves – those who, in Aristotle’s own words, ‘have no share . . . in purposive life’ at all?16 Much depends here on exactly what concord is understood to consist in, particularly the common virtuousness in which it is supposed to be rooted. To consider city-wide harmony as similar to concord in Aristotle’s ‘perfect’ friendship is absurd as long as concord is considered a quality, something you can possess and share – as in the case of Cicero’s friendship ideal. On the latter view, virtuous friends are ‘of one mind’ insofar as they have similar views, and match each other in virtuousness, typically supported by a similar upbringing and education. By the same token agreement between, say, a nobleman and a commoner can only provide a weak semblance of concord. Since the latter cannot be presumed to have achieved the same level of virtuousness as the former, their concord is more like a contract, balancing very different interests. However, concord and virtue can also be understood as manifesting themselves primarily in action. On this view, virtuous friends enjoy concord not simply because they match each other in their level of virtuousness, but insofar as they show virtue in how they act together. Similarly, in the case of the nobleman and the commoner, what counts is not so much the similarity or difference between their respective levels of accumulated virtue, but actual instances of successful action. For Aristotle, friends enjoy true concord not in the sense that they think and behave similarly, but rather in the sense that they act together. Each of these perspectives seems to represent an aspect of Aristotle’s understanding of virtue. Indeed, there is arguably some tension within the Ethics on this issue.17 As for the first view, Aristotle does sometimes speak of virtue in terms of ‘disposition’ (ἑxiV).18 And this static understanding of virtue arguably 14 15

16 17

18

Cf. Price, Love and Friendship, pp. 198–9. ‘Good’ is one translation of ἐpieikeῖV – ‘able’ or ‘reasonable, good’ (Liddell-Scott) – which Rackham here translates as ‘upper class’ in 1167b1. Pol. 1280a33. Cf. Price, Love and Friendship, p. 106. See also Lorraine Smith Pangle, Aristotle and the Philosophy of Friendship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 123–32. Cf. NE 1105b4. It is in line with this that Aristotle explains magnanimity, literally ‘greatness of soul’ (megaloyucίa), as correct awareness of the greatness (mέgeqoV) of one’s deeds, and of the honour (timῆ) deserved on account of it. As such, magnanimity is therefore a ‘crowning ornament of the virtues’ (1124a1–2).

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supports the hierarchical picture of the city in the Politics, in that it allows for the quantifying of different levels of virtue between different people.19 Yet when Aristotle expounds his theory of virtue in the Ethics, he is closer to the second view. Here the emphasis lies on action (prάxiV) as the actualization of disposition. Indeed, action is prior to disposition: while we are born with the faculties of sight and hearing, and only subsequently learn how to use them, ‘[t]he virtues on the other hand we acquire by first having actually practised them’ (1103a31). The actions through which virtue manifests itself are the same by which virtue is acquired in the first place.20 So at the Olympic games, Aristotle writes, ‘the wreaths of victory are not bestowed upon the handsomest and strongest persons present, but on men who enter for the competitions . . . so it is those who act rightly who carry off the prizes and good things of life’ (1099a4–10).

Friends acting together To understand virtue only in terms of disposition, then, is not to grasp its full reality. To be sure, a virtuous disposition consists in the accumulation and internalization of virtuous deeds; and as such it can also inform future action. Yet disposition cannot determine future action, let alone guarantee the repetition of similar deeds in the future. As Derrida puts it, commenting on Aristotle’s ethics: ‘The analysis of conditions of possibility . . . will never suffice in giving an account of the act or the event.’21 And the same applies to friendship: a friendship ‘will never be reduced to the desire or the potentiality of friendship’.22 For if virtue consists primarily in (successful) action, then virtue in friendship – and especially virtuous unanimity (‘concord’) between friends – consists primarily in (successful) common action. This conclusion is, in fact, supported by Aristotle’s own comments about concord in Chapter 6 of Book IX. In order to have concord, he points out, it is not enough to have ‘agreement of opinion’ (ὁmodoxίa), since such can also apply between strangers (1167a22–3). ‘Nor yet is agreement in reasoned judgements [ὁmognῶmoῦntaV] about any subject whatever, for instance astronomy, concord’ (1167a24–5). What, then, does concord really consist in? Interestingly, it is in order to answer this question that Aristotle refers to ‘political friendship’. And what his examples of political friendship are meant to clarify is precisely the point made above: namely, that concord consists in agreement pertaining to action, or 19 20 21 22

See Chapter 1, Section III. See NE 1104a27–b3. Jacques Derrida, The Politics of Friendship (trans. George Collins; London: Verso, 2005), p. 17. Ibid.

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agreement in action (insofar as deliberation is already the beginning of action). Having dwelled on the political parallel for a while, he returns to the theme of concord in friendship. Virtuous friends, he writes, ‘wish for just and expedient ends, which they strive to attain in common’ (1167b8–9). Concord, then, is a thoroughly practical matter, in the literal sense of relating to action (prάxiV). We have concord insofar as we succeed in acting together.23 Concord, like virtue, is about what we do as much as what we are. For friends to be unanimous is not so much to think or act in identical ways, but rather to support and complement one another in shared activity. In the context of Aristotle’s practical philosophy, common action can involve even more than just cooperation, or acting towards a common purpose. Action is ‘common’ especially when each of the participants is involved qua agent, rather than as a mere executioner of tasks. Action begins in deliberation, which involves the faculty of choice (proaίresiV). Cooperation involves common action only when all participants are truly active, in the sense of being involved in the process of deliberation. Nor does a common purpose necessarily presuppose common action: each member may be active, yet do so without deliberating or even cooperating with the other members. In other words, common action involves not only cooperation and common purposes but interdependence between the agents involved: each must incorporate the agency of the other(s) into his own actions, a process that makes the common activity more than the sum of the individual contributions (as in writing a book together, or starting a business together).24 Acting together in this sense certainly does not make things easier. It is often more straightforward to cut up the project into smaller parts – the chapters of a book, the tasks involved in starting a business – and divide them according to individual interests, skills and expertise. This way everyone can ‘get on with it’, without being disturbed too much by the amateurish suggestions of the others. Yet such an approach may miss an intrinsic dimension of friendship, namely that of being dependent on one’s friends – and of welcoming such dependence. Friendship is not primarily about ‘getting things done’, but about doing and experiencing things together, and shared understanding and enjoying as part of that process. Thus friendship means permitting others to mind your business, even if their interference is not based on expertise.25 Thus, in Chapter 9 23 24 25

Cf. Ronald Beiner, Political Judgment (London: Methuen, 1983), pp. 80–1. Cf. Price, Love and Friendship, pp. 117–18. Cf. Chapter 6, Section II.

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of Book  IX, which deals with the issue of whether we need friends, Aristotle observes that friends augment each other’s happiness; furthermore, that what augments their happiness is not so much their ‘feeding in the same place’, like cattle (1170b13), but their ‘living together and sharing words and thought’ (suzῆn kaὶ koinῶneίn logῶn kaὶ dianoίaV, 1170b12).26 ‘Living together’ goes beyond mere co-existence, or even cooperation. In emphasizing the discursive character of this living together, Aristotle suggests it involves deliberate interference – which only allows for genuinely common action. John M. Cooper, expanding on Aristotle’s observations in this chapter, points out that by acting with others one gets an immediate sense of their appreciation of the common activity, which enriches one’s own appreciation of the activity. This, he explains, is why shared activity is more enjoyable than individual activity.27 One might add that shared activity is enriching also insofar as it introduces new perspectives on one’s own action. In Chapter 1, I referred to C. S. Lewis’s observation that a third friend changes and enhances the way the other two know each other. He notes that another person has a unique ‘part’ in  one’s friend, different from one’s own.28 Similarly, one might say that each friend has a unique ‘part’ in the goods shared in friendship, and in the activities through which these goods are realized, a perspective that might be different from one’s own, yet which can as such enrich it. Indeed, along with each friend joining the friendship comes an additional perspective, each expanding and enriching our common goods and pursuits. Thus Stanley Hauerwas observes: ‘Through friends I discover other friends. In the process, they discover one another, making us all more than we would otherwise be.’29 This interplay between perspectives shapes and transforms the friends’ common goods, and the way they seek to realize them. Their common objectives are not the outcome of negotiations of private interests, but emerge between them; or perhaps we should say that it is around such common objectives that they find each other as friends in the first place. In any case, their common objectives first take shape in the context of their acting together. It is against this background that one can appreciate what Cooper mentions as a second characteristic of shared activity. He observes that in a joint activity, each agent enhances his own agency, since he now has a share in the activity of 26 27 28 29

My translation; Rackham has ‘living together and communicating their thoughts to each other’. Cooper, ‘Aristotle on Friendship’, p. 327. C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves (London: HarperCollins, 2002), p. 74. Cf. Chapter 1, Section I. Stanley Hauerwas, Hannah’s Child: A Theologian’s Memoir (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012), p. 277.

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others: ‘What others do as their share of the joint activity he experiences as his doing as well, insofar as he is a member of the group, and it is the group that is the agent primarily at work in it.’ Therefore ‘[i]n a shared activity one’s enjoyment, and one’s interest in what one is doing, is not limited just to what one directly does oneself ’.30 Cooper notes two consequences. The first is enhancement of an individual agent’s interest in his activity, and his enjoyment of it. In other words, he will not easily get bored. The second is the inclusion of his agency in the agency of the group, even to such an extent that ‘he can be said to be active – indirectly – whenever and wherever any of the group is at work’.31 Thus Cooper puts his finger on a remarkable phenomenon: through acting with others we put our agency partly in the hands of others, whose agency is beyond our control; yet as a result our agency is nonetheless enhanced. In fact, nobody involved in the activity has ultimate control; instead, there is common action – a serendipitous process.32 In fact, Aristotle alludes to the very same experience when he observes, in Chapter 3 of Book III, that ‘what we do by means of our friends, is done, in a sense, by ourselves’ (1112b28).33 With this account of common action, the discussion has moved somewhat beyond what Aristotle actually writes in Book IX, Chapter 6 about the shared activity of friends,34 and certainly beyond his observations on political concord. However, Aristotle’s practical philosophy helps in understanding the significance of his comment in Book IX that concord is not merely ‘agreement of opinion’, or ‘agreement in reasoned judgements’ (1167a23–5), but consists in practical agreement. Concord, we now see, is a unity of minds that manifests itself in action. Concord, whether among friends or citizens, is realized in common action. 30 31

32

33

34

Cooper, ‘Aristotle on Friendship’, p. 327. Ibid., p. 328. Price is probably more precise in stating that ‘the activity of each party can be viewed as the exercise at once of a capacity of his own, and of a capacity (whether similar or complementary) of the other’s’. Price, Love and Friendship, p. 117. Cf. also Schwartz, Aquinas on Friendship, pp. 138–9. Aristotle’s remark that ‘if men are friends, there is no need of justice between them’ (NE 1155a27) must therefore be taken quite seriously: friends have moved beyond justice insofar as they have moved beyond the logic of exchange. Translation taken from Robert Spaemann, Essays in Anthropology: Variations on a Theme (trans. Guido de Graaff and James Mumford; Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2010), p. 11. Karl Marx is supposed to have said to Friedrich Engels, ‘I do my thinking in you, and you do yours in me’ – a phrase which Schlingensiepen applies to Bonhoeffer’s friendship with Bethge; Ferdinand Schlingensiepen, Dietrich Bonhoeffer 1906–1945: Martyr, Thinker, Man of Resistance (trans. Isabel Best; London: T&T Clark, 2010), p. 348. Again, Hauerwas states in his memoir: ‘Our lives are possible only because of what others make of them.’ Hauerwas, Hannah’s Child, p. 247. As Gregory Jones points out, Alisdair McIntyre’s observation that others are ‘co-authors’ of our lives is particularly true in friendship. L.  Gregory Jones, Transformed Judgment: Toward a Trinitarian Account of the Moral Life (Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 1990), p. 83. Cf. Cooper, ‘Aristotle on Friendship’, p. 328.

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Friendship, public life and politics The above account of common action in friendship lends support to the suggestion made at the beginning of this chapter: namely, that friendship resembles or even supports public life, due to its relative ‘openness’ to the variety of goods defining and/or governing it. As long as concord is understood in terms of common characteristics, it seems unrealistic to use the same concept (i.e., ‘concord’) for the supposedly intimate harmony enjoyed by friends as well as the formal agreements between citizens. Yet as soon as the focus comes to lie on common action, such boundaries begin to dissolve: shared activity is constitutive of civic life as much as it is of friendship (if not more); and conversations among friends can be as lively as (if not livelier than) debates in the public media. Furthermore, once it is clear that these boundaries are less rigid than they might seem, one can even begin to imagine how patterns of interaction characteristic of friendship might foreshadow, or even shape, political processes. And here, too, one can draw on Aristotle, particularly on the examples he gives to illustrate city-wide concord, or ‘political friendship’, in Chapter 6 of Book IX. These examples, as shown earlier, are taken from the context of political deliberation and involve specific political decisions: ‘that the offices of state shall be elective, or that an alliance shall be made with Sparta, or that Pittacus shall be dictator’ (1167a31–2). In the light of the account of concord developed above, and considering that deliberation and decision-making constitute the beginning of action, one might suggest that these processes actually involve common action on a political scale. Insofar as ‘all’ agree that the offices of state shall be elective, and so on, all are involved in the action following these decisions; this is what we mean when we speak of corporate agency. Of course, Aristotle does not imply that in these cases literally all inhabitants of the city sit down and participate in the process of deliberation. He does suggest, however, that each has a stake in that process. And for each to have a stake, it is not required that they have exactly identical roles to play. What matters instead is that through their different contributions (e.g., deliberation, legislation, implementation, execution) they support a genuinely common project. What matters is the agreement expressed in the process of acting together. Thus Aristotle points out that a city’s concord does not lie in everyone wanting exactly ‘the same’ (tὸ aὐtὸ, 1167a35); if that were the case, they could never agree on who should become their new ruler. Instead, their concord lies in agreement ‘in relation to the same

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matter’ (ἐn tῷ aὐtῷ, 1167b1).35 Some ‘agree’ by actually realizing the common objective, others by providing the material means for its realization, and many will ‘agree’ only by way of tacit consent. And the latter includes, of course, the tacit shouldering of burdens that comes with defending the polity against common threats.36 As in friendship, then, each individual (or group) supports the corporate process in a unique way, corresponding to his (or its) unique place within the body politic; the corporate agency would not be the same should one of the parties withhold its contribution. Thus what Aristotle says about friends could be applied to a city as well: ‘what we do by means of our rulers and fellowcitizens, is done, in a sense, by ourselves’.37

II  Arendt: Politics as acting together The political oeuvre of Hannah Arendt (1906–75), though emerging from a context very different from Aristotle’s, arguably aims at reviving, elaborating on and updating classical intuitions with a view to twentieth-century civic life and politics.38 While Arendt only occasionally refers to friendship and its civic or political significance, her account of civic life and politics clearly supports my interpretation of Aristotle’s friendship ethics, in that it regards public life as a field of free interaction. In fact, whereas Aristotle’s Ethics offers only a glimpse of successful politics rooted in successful interaction, this notion attains a pivotal role in Arendt’s writings. It will be worth exploring Arendt’s analysis as well, not only because she might be useful in bridging the gap between antiquity and late modernity, but also because of her explicit analysis of political dynamics in terms of (inter)action. My main focus in exploring Arendt’s thought will be The Human Condition (1958). Here she develops the notion that through action a public sphere is opened up in the first place; furthermore, that politics consists primarily in the interaction taking place within that sphere. 35 36 37

38

My translation. Cf. Oliver O’Donovan, The Ways of Judgment (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), p. 54. For a similar interpretation, see John M. Cooper, ‘Political Animals and Civic Friends’, in Aristoteles’ ‘Politik’ (ed. Günther Patzig; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990), pp. 220–41 (236–41). Pace Richard Mulgan, ‘The Role of Friendship in Aristotle’s Political Theory’, in The Challenge to Friendship in Modernity (ed. Preston King and Heather Devere; London: Frank Cass, 2000), pp. 15–32 (26–7). Cf. Dana Villa, ‘Introduction: The Development of Arendt’s Political Thought’, in The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt (ed. Dana Villa; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 1–21 (9).

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Vita activa Arendt’s account of politics as interaction presupposes a number of crucial distinctions pertaining to what in The Human Condition she calls the vita activa: the life of action, as contrasted with the vita contemplativa, or the ‘life of thought’.39 Arendt distinguishes between three basic kinds of human activities: ‘labour’, ‘work’ and ‘action’. With these distinctions she draws on Aristotle’s distinction between poίhsiV and prάxiV,40 while adding an extra category. The category of ‘labour’ could be understood as a form of poίhsiV, or ‘making’, though it really corresponds to what in Aristotle is the vegetative aspect of life. ‘The human condition of labor is life itself ’,41 Arendt writes, meaning ‘life’ in a purely biological sense, governed by physical functions, desires and needs. Labour is the human activity that directly serves the endeavour of survival, and consumption in particular.42 Corresponding to Aristotle’s poίhsiV is what Arendt calls ‘work’. In work we produce things that are not meant to be consumed: the tools we use for labour as well as other artifacts, such as sculptures and buildings. Especially in producing the latter, man makes himself a home on earth. Furthermore, to the extent that he produces artifacts and edifices that outlast him, man shapes a durable ‘world’. Arendt’s definition of work is as follows: ‘The human condition of work is worldliness.’43 ‘Action’ is the term Arendt uses to denote Aristotle’s prάxiV. In contrast to labour and work, action does not operate on the basis of force. In work, force is still needed to shape material into a certain form, or make it perform a certain function. The meaning of work also lies in an end that is achieved only after the activity has ceased: a finished sculpture or a properly functioning machine. The meaning of work, then, lies beyond itself; homo faber, the craftsman, only thinks in terms of usefulness.44 Action, however, does not aim for such extrinsic goals. It is rather the kind of activity in which the agent discloses himself. This selfdisclosure is not just an effect of action, but its very meaning. As in Aristotle’s prάxiV, here the end is intrinsic to the activity. Action is specifically human; some animals are capable of making things; yet only human beings, Arendt claims, are able to reveal their personal identity. Disclosing himself, each person

39 40 41 42 43 44

Cf. Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1998), pp. 12–17. NE 1094a4–6. Arendt, The Human Condition, p. 7. Arendt quotes Marx’ dictum that labour is ‘man’s metabolism with nature.’ Ibid., p. 98. Ibid., p. 7. Ibid., p. 54. Cf. Idem, Was ist Politik? (München: Piper, 1993), pp. 125–6.

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acts in a unique way and from a unique position. Action is thus determined by plurality: ‘Plurality is the condition of human action because we are all the same, that is, human, in such a way that nobody is ever the same as anyone else who ever lived, lives, or will live.’45 In fact, action is not just the medium through which our identity is revealed; it is the very substance of who we are. To act is not simply to follow one’s instincts, or use force to realize certain ideas, but to do something new. It is through the spontaneity of our agency that we appear as the unique beings we are. Indeed, action is characterized not so much by choice as by this spontaneity.46 To act is to initiate, to make a real beginning. Our words and deeds express our ‘natality’ – a concept with which Arendt seeks to capture not only birth as the human mode of entering the world (which they share with all mammals), but also the unpredictable beginnings human beings make throughout their lives. Each human birth heralds a life of initiatives.47

Action as process The characteristics of action that I have just mentioned – self-disclosure, plurality, spontaneity, beginning – already suggest that action can only take place between human beings. Labour and work, in contrast, are private. They can, of course, be carried out with others in a single productive enterprise, yet that does not alter the fact that the kind of activity involved is solitary. If the meaning of activity lies in self-disclosure, however, then others are no longer extensions (let alone objects) of my agency, but rather the ‘audience’ before which I appear in my action. Indeed, I cannot disclose myself without others to whom to reveal myself – other agents who can recognize my activity as meaningful. In contrast to what the term might suggest, the ‘audience’ does not remain passive: my actions are bound to provoke a response, and probably a number of responses. In fact, as Arendt points out, every act is itself a response to the question, ‘Who are you?’, which arises in the encounter between agents.48 Since action thus consists in communication rather than biological or mechanical operation, it is ‘the only activity that goes on between men without 45

46

47 48

Arendt, The Human Condition, p. 8. As Derrida puts it, all human beings are ‘equally altogether other.’ Derrida, Politics of Friendship, p. 22. Hannah Arendt, ‘What is Freedom?’, in Between Past and Future (London: Penguin, 2006), pp. 142–69 (150, 164–9). Arendt, The Human Condition, pp. 9, 176–7. Ibid., p. 178.

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the intermediary of things or matter’.49 If action has a medium at all, it is speech. While labour and work can dispense with speech, action cannot: The action [which the agent] begins is humanly disclosed by the word, and though his deed can be perceived in its brute physical appearance without verbal accompaniment, it becomes relevant only through the spoken word in which he identifies himself as the actor, pronouncing what he does, had done, and intends to do.50

Another feature of action is what Arendt calls its ‘boundlessness’. Action evokes responses, but these responses come from agents who are themselves capable of action; their responses are therefore re-actions – responses that are nonetheless new beginnings. ‘Thus action and reaction among men never move in a closed circle and can never be reliably confined to two partners.’ An agent ‘is never merely a “doer” but always and at the same time a sufferer’.51 The boundlessness of action manifests itself most visibly in complex processes of interaction between many, in which agency necessarily implies suffering consequences. This boundlessness, however, is not contingent on the number of agents: ‘the smallest act in the most limited circumstances bears the seed of the same boundlessness, because one deed, and sometimes one word, suffices to change every constellation’.52 Only stories, then, give a non-reductive account of action.53 That action is communicative and boundless is another way of saying it evokes an open-ended process rather than a circumscribed operation: there is no point at which discourse or interaction is ‘finished’. Action does not produce anything, Arendt points out, but results in an ‘in-between’ of words and deeds. There exists, of course, a material ‘in-between’ as well: the world of buildings and artefacts, the products of our making. Yet this material in-between is ‘overgrown with an altogether different in-between which consists of deeds and words and owes its origin exclusively to men’s acting and speaking directly to one another’.54 This second ‘in-between’ is what Arendt also refers to as a ‘web of human relationships’.55 It is only within this web that labour and work attain distinctly human meaning.56 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

Ibid., p. 7. Ibid., p. 179. Ibid., p. 190. Ibid. Cf. Chapter 1, Section III. Arendt, The Human Condition, pp. 182–3. Ibid., p. 183. Spaemann gives the example of a meal, where eating and drinking attain meaning beyond their biological significance; see Robert Spaemann, Glück und Wohlwollen (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1989), pp. 214–15.

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Whether we begin with an individual act, singling it out as a constitutive element of the web of human relationships, or instead start with this web and emphasize its primacy over individual words and deeds; the main point in Arendt’s argument is that we cannot have one without the other. The same applies to the relation between action and that which Arendt calls the ‘public realm’. This realm is in fact nothing other than the web of human relationships, but then presented in its spatial dimension: the ‘common’ which, like a table, both relates and separates those who meet in (around) it, and which involves a common perspective transcending (if not replacing) their private perspectives.57 In Arendt’s words, ‘the reality of the public realm relies on the simultaneous presence of innumerable perspectives and aspects in which the common world presents itself and for which no common measurement or denominator can ever be devised’.58 It is in this common space – in the public limelight – that words and deeds can truly be appreciated for what they are. At the same time, the public realm, like the ‘web of human relationships’, is constituted of the very words and deeds that appear in it. Action and public realm presuppose each other.

The place of common action We now see that according to Arendt action is ‘common’ by definition. Indeed, it is action and interaction that make a place common in the first place – that is, ‘common’ in a specifically human rather than merely physical sense. Shared activity, as identified earlier with friendship (Section I), is not so much a subspecies of action as a dimension of all action. Thus Arendt’s account of action supports the idea that shared activity in friendship is not categorically different from the public affairs of civic life, or perhaps even politics. However, Arendt’s emphasis on plurality (as the condition of action) might re-ignite lingering skepticism. Surely cooperation between friends is more circumscribed and more harmonious than civic and political affairs? Surely Arendt’s ‘web of human relationships’ is far more complex than the dynamics of common action in friendship? And doesn’t Arendt herself insist on a strict distinction between the private and public realm – the latter demarcated sharply by the private sphere, a sphere of life hidden from the ‘light’ of public life?59 It is true that Arendt uses spatial images to describe the distinction between 57 58 59

Arendt, The Human Condition, p. 52. Ibid., p. 57. In Chapter 4 I will return to the concept of ‘common sense’, in relation to judgement. Cf. Ibid., pp. 22–78.

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public and private. However, for her the essential difference between the two spheres is not spatial, or quantitative, but qualitative – that is, life is not private where it involves a relatively small and presumably more harmonious circle of interaction, or public where the circle of interaction is larger and presumably more ‘plural’. The walls between property and common space do not constitute the private and public spheres, but rather maintain their integrity, namely by separating them.60 Arendt envisages the same distinction made by Aristotle: for Aristotle, the household, the heart of private life, is defined not so much by its limited space as by those who live in it (women, children, slaves), and particularly the kind of life led by them: life short of freedom and action.61 Now, while Arendt may not subscribe to the exclusion and repression that is taken for granted by Aristotle, she does follow him in regarding the household as a sphere characterized by certain activities, namely labour and consumption. Again, in Aristotle’s city tradesmen and artisans may venture outside the household, yet they do not take part in public life in the sense that citizens (polίteiV) do.62 Again, Arendt may not agree with Aristotle’s denying these classes citizenship, yet she does follow him in the way he classifies their activity: work is serviceable to action in creating a material context for action, yet it does not consist in action itself. Only life in the public realm is the life of action.63 If the distinction between public and private lies in the kinds of activity that are found in them, rather than in the scope of interaction, then a relatively small number of friends is not a reason to restrict friendship to the private sphere. Indeed, one need not adopt Aristotle’s socio-political hierarchy in order to see that friendship is not confined to the life of labour, consumption and/ or work. Of course, friendship is also found in the sphere of labour, work and consumption. Yet friendship, as was seen earlier (Section I), allows for more than these activities; it allows for common action – the ‘serendipitous’ process of interaction by way of mutual dependency, involving mutual enhancement of agency. Friendship is not exhausted in mutual benefit; friends are particularly those who enable each other to be ‘initiators’. Friendship belongs more to the public than the private sphere. 60 61 62 63

Ibid., pp. 70–3. Cf. Villa, ‘Introduction’, p. 10. Cf. Aristotle’s definition of a ‘citizen’ in Pol. 1275a24. According to Arendt, a problem of modernity is the blurring of boundaries between the private and the public and the dissolution of both into ‘the social’: the public has become ‘a function of the private’ and the private ‘the only common concern left’. Arendt, The Human Condition, p. 69. See also Ibid., pp. 248–325. Idem, On Revolution (Middlesex: Penguin, 1973), pp. 59–114. Idem, ‘The Crisis in Culture: Its Social and Its Political Significance’, in Between Past and Future (Middlesex: Penguin Books, 2006), pp. 194–222. Idem, Was ist Politik?, pp. 60–7.

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Power Thus far it has been shown how Arendt’s account of the vita activa confirms the notion found in Aristotle’s Ethics that friendship belongs in and perhaps even supports public life. The political relevance of this notion appears to be an indirect one: friendship contributes to and even drives public interaction and discourse in society, which are necessary conditions for a properly functioning political apparatus, and which may indeed be regarded as part of ‘politics’ in its broadest sense.64 In fact, a glimpse of the indirect political relevance of friendship was already seen in Aristotle’s discussion of political concord. From Arendt’s point of view, however, this way of relating public life and politics may still be too weak. Public interaction and discourse are not merely contributions to politics; nor is the collective agency of a polity a mere prerequisite for successful political action. Instead, these processes are political in themselves. One way in which Arendt illustrates this point is by analysing the phenomenon of power. Power is a key phenomenon in politics (although it is not restricted to politics). Yet according to Arendt, it is widely misunderstood, or confused with other concepts. Reminding ourselves of the etymology of the relevant words is useful here. The English word ‘power’ denotes ‘ability’, deriving as it does from the Latin posse (‘to be able to’), and potentia (‘ability’, ‘potential’). Similarly, the German noun Macht (‘power’) is related to the noun Vermögen (‘capacity’). Power is possibility, potentiality – the ability to act, to achieve something. Arendt adds, however, that in the context of human affairs (rather than human operations on lifeless material) power cannot be ‘owned’ and ‘dispensed’ by individuals, but can only be shared between people. This is in line, of course, with what Arendt observes about action in general, namely that there can be no action in isolation from other agents. Thus power, the ability to act, ‘springs up between men when they act together’.65 Power emerges with the plurality, without which there would be no genuine action.66 This understanding of power contrasts, of course, with popular understandings. Political power is often defined in terms of control or force. Yet this is a category mistake, Arendt holds, applying as it does the methods of labour and work to the sphere of action, thereby reducing the dynamics of human affairs to the mechanical operations of, say, a factory. Strength cannot be shared between 64 65 66

See Chapter 1, Section I. Arendt, The Human Condition, p. 200. Since politics involves power, and power depends on plurality, plurality is ‘specifically the condition – not only the conditio sine qua non, but the conditio per quam – of all political life’. Ibid., p. 7.

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people, and force is by definition violent. Indeed, when applied in human affairs, force reduces the relation between a people and its leaders to one of mere ‘subjects’ and ‘rulers’, leaving both groups isolated from the other, and with this isolation the conditions under which power is generated are destroyed. From a political point of view, force and violence are impotent – powerless.67 While power is thus lost under tyranny, it can be regained through popular revolt against oppression and tyranny. A crowd, or even a small group of revolutionaries, can undermine a regime vastly superior in strength by acting together. Arendt considers such resistance ‘one of the most active and efficient ways of action ever devised, because it cannot be countered by fighting  .  .  . but only by mass slaughter in which even the victor is defeated, cheated of his prize, since nobody can rule over dead men’.68 This does not imply that power necessarily undermines government, nor that government necessarily stifles the generation of power. Governance stimulates the generation of power insofar as it consists in making initiatives – beginnings that are completed through the actions of (many) others. Here to rule is to begin, and to be ruled is to finish what has been initiated.69 Unlike physical resources of violence, then, power cannot be stored up in palaces and bunkers. Not only does it spring up where men act together, it also ‘vanishes the moment they disperse’.70 Power can only be actualized in the public realm; at the same time, the public realm only exists insofar as there is power. If the public realm is nothing but the ‘web’ made of words and deeds, and if power implies successful interplay of words and deeds, then ‘[p]ower is what keeps the public realm, the potential space of appearance between acting and speaking men, in existence’.71 The example of power illustrates, first of all, that just as the boundary between the private and public realms are not as rigid as they might seem, so too the division between the public and political affairs may not be as clear as one might think. What was still implicit in Aristotle’s Ethics is now emphasized by Arendt, namely the idea that political processes only ‘work’ insofar as all those concerned are also actively involved. And for Arendt the reverse is also true: everyone participating in public life automatically participates in politics as well. It will be considered later whether this very broad definition of the ‘political’ is 67 68 69

70 71

Ibid., pp. 189–90, 200. Ibid., p. 201. Ibid., p. 189. Here Arendt points out that both Greek and Latin have two complementary verbs for ‘to act’, namely ἄrcw and prάttw in Greek and agere and gerere in Latin; the first verb of each pair emphasizes the initiating aspect of action, the second the completion of action. Ibid., p. 200. Ibid.

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correct or helpful. At this point, however, her account of power is surely a valid reminder of the political weight of agency taking place outside the chambers of government. Secondly, it should be noted that what was described earlier as common action in friendship is here identified by Arendt as a political phenomenon. Through acting together, it was seen, friends enable each other to act, and to do what each of them would be unable to do on his or her own. Now, this mutual enhancement of agency is exactly what, according to Arendt, power consists in. To say, with Aristotle, that friends somehow act through each other,72 is to say they empower each other. Friends acting together, then, exemplify a political dynamic. Indeed, their shared activity not only takes place within (or foreshadows) the public realm; insofar as they create a context for future action – perhaps for other people as well as for each other – they can even be said to preserve the public realm.

Power, promise and friendship As indicated earlier, Arendt does not very often refer to friendship in connec­ tion to politics. (Chapter 4 will consider a later essay in which she does make this connection.73) Yet there is a passage in The Human Condition where she does speak of friendship. The immediate context of that reference is her discussion of ‘respect’ as a political value: respect, rather than love, is the appropriate attitude among fellow-citizens, whereas love belongs to the sphere of intimacy. ‘Respect,’ she writes, ‘not unlike the Aristotelian philia politikē, is a kind of friendship without intimacy and without closeness; it is a regard for the person from the distance which the space of the world puts between us’.74 Love, by contrast, is a power that unites people in intimacy and closeness, yet eliminates the ‘in-between’ that constitutes the public realm. Love is irreconcilable with the plurality that defines the public realm, and which is the condition of promising. To that extent lovers may well live together but they cannot act together – at least not as lovers. Love is private, unworldly: ‘in distinction from friendship, [love] is killed, or rather extinguished, the moment it is displayed in public’.75 One could object, of course, 72 73 74 75

NE 1112b28. See Chapter 4, Section III. Arendt, The Human Condition, p. 243. Ibid., p. 242. The reverse is also true, according to Arendt: when love and other emotions belonging in the private sphere (fraternity, compassion) are allowed to spill over into the public realm and dominate politics, this leads to an elimination of public life, leaving the public realm substituted by ‘society’ – a super-sized version of the family and reducing politics to the administration of society’s welfare. See, for example, ‘The Social Question’ in Idem, On Revolution, pp. 59–114.

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by saying that friendship, too, is a kind of love – as does Eric Gregory in his attempt to vindicate Augustine’s political theology against Arendt’s criticism.76 Indeed, Arendt does not make much of an effort to distinguish between the various forms of love, and just assumes that Eros is the paradigm of love – an assumption many would disagree with. Yet as far as erotic (or sexual) love is concerned, Arendt’s observations are surely correct. As C. S. Lewis observes: ‘Lovers are normally face to face, absorbed in each other; Friends, side by side, absorbed in some common interest.’77 Friendship can be seen as maintaining the ‘in-between’ that is lost in love, so maintaining also plurality. Friendship remains appropriate where the sexual embrace no longer is, namely in public. Furthermore, it would be a mistake to interpret the ‘distance’ that Arendt associates with friendship in terms of looseness – as if Arendt were deliberately diluting the bond of friendship. To be sure, friendship as she envisages it is not governed by the strong desires and emotions of sexual relationships. Whereas Eros strives for unity, friendship maintains plurality. However, we should not simply assume that plurality equals weaker bonds, or that an increase in plurality necessarily equals loss of harmony – in friendship, or in public life more generally. This can be illustrated with Arendt’s interesting account of the unpredictability of action, and promise as its political remedy. We have already encountered the problem of unpredictability in the form of action’s ‘boundlessness’: since action consists in spontaneous beginning, and each act provokes new acts, the resulting processes of interaction are uncontrollable. This boundlessness and unpredictability of action are two sides of the same coin: the fact that every act is a new beginning already implies that the future is uncertain. Importantly, Arendt emphasizes that this uncertainty arises not so much from human plurality, as if the future were more certain with fewer agents. Instead, it arises from man’s ‘inability to rely upon himself or to have complete faith in himself’ (emphasis added).78 Of course, the problem of unpredictability becomes apparent in interaction: if I cannot be certain about my own future acts, I am even less certain about what others might do in response. Thus we face the ‘impossibility of foretelling the consequences of an act within a community of equals where everybody has the same capacity to act’.79 This unpredictability is also a threat to power, insofar as it reduces the 76

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Cf. Eric Gregory, Politics and the Order of Love: An Augustinian Ethic of Democratic Citizenship (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), p. 208. Lewis, The Four Loves, p. 73. Cf. Hannah Arendt, Men in Dark Times (New York: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1968), pp. 24–5. Arendt, The Human Condition, p. 244. Ibid.

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chances for successful common action: given our unpredictability, we cannot take for granted that our interaction will be common action; we cannot take for granted that it will be mutually empowering. Thus, paradoxically, while it is the boundlessness of action that opens up a public realm in the first place, it is the same boundlessness – seen under the aspect of its unpredictability – that also threatens to destroy it. Arendt captures this paradox when she speaks of the ‘frailty of human affairs’.80 The ‘remedy’ against the problem of unpredictability, Arendt claims, lies in the practice of promising. Rather than a remedy imposed from outside the process of action, promise is ‘one of the potentialities of action itself ’.81 By making promises we insert ‘islands of predictability’ in the sea of uncertainty which is the future. That is, we freely bind ourselves with regard to our future undertakings; our word spoken today becomes binding for our actions tomorrow. In doing so, we provide predictability for ourselves as well as for others: since they can now anticipate (some of) our future acts, they face a less unpredictable future, which in turn encourages them to act on our promises, or even to make counter-promises – and so on. ‘The force that keeps [human beings] together, as distinguished from the space of appearances in which they gather and the power which keeps this public space in existence, is the force of mutual promise or contract.’82 Thus, if the ability to act depends on power that springs from acting together, preserving a public realm, promising in turn is the practice which preserves that power.83 Promises can take various political shapes, such as constitutions in domestic politics, and pacts and treatises in foreign politics. In fact, a good part of Arendt’s political writings is devoted to analysing the history of treatises and constitutions, in support of her argument that insofar as politics largely consists in constitutionmaking, it is, in essence, an ongoing practice of promising.84 Apart from her view that such activity is worthy in itself, providing ‘public happiness’85 to those 80 81

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Ibid., pp. 236–7. Cf. Ibid., pp. 188–92. The ability to make promises is complemented by the ‘power to forgive’, which deals rather with the past. See Ibid., pp. 236–43. See also Chapter 4, Section I. Ibid., pp. 244–5. Cf. Jeremy Waldron, ‘Arendt’s constitutional politics’, in The Cambridge Companion to Hanna Arendt (ed. Dana Villa; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 201–19 (212–13). In On Revolution (1963), for example, Arendt presents the American Revolution as an eruption of political interaction in this sense, with the French Revolution as an example of revolution driven by merely social concerns; see Arendt, On Revolution, pp. 59–140. Cf. Idem, ‘On Humanity in Dark Times: Thoughts about Lessing’, in Men in Dark Times (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1968), pp. 3–31 (11–15). Idem, On Revolution, pp. 72, 126–7.

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who participate in it, the point about political forms of promise-making (and promise-keeping) is that without them the processes of interaction in the public realm would spiral out of control, allowing power to dissipate. Only promises keep people together, to such an extent that their interaction remains fruitful – just as in ancient Greece, Arendt points out, the walls and laws of the city ensured the stability of its public affairs.86 In public and political affairs, then, plurality, far from introducing chaos and unpredictability, is a key factor in the protection against these forces. The faculty of promise, Arendt writes, ‘depend[s] on plurality, on the presence and acting of others, for no one . . . can feel bound by a promise made only to himself ’. Indeed, ‘promising enacted in solitude or isolation remain[s] without reality and can signify no more than a role played before one’s self ’.87 The act of binding oneself, therefore, must also be an act of binding oneself to others. Without this forensic accountability, and without others reminding us of our promises, the latter would be ineffective. Now, the same might also be true in friendship. In fact, one could argue that the practice of promising is already implied in what was described earlier as friends’ shared action; that is, insofar as friends deliberately depend on each other when acting together, they are in effect also promising each other that they are indeed ‘dependable’ – accountable to each other when it comes to their future actions. Their promises are embodied in their making themselves vulnerable to each other, rather than putting up securities against the ‘threat’ of their respective unpredictability. Whether or not common action in friendship is an implicit form of promising, however, the key point is this: just as in public life unpredictability is not necessarily caused by plurality, in friendship unity need not be based on intimacy. The power of a promise does not lie in the level of closeness or intimacy with the person to whom the promise is made. If it is relatively easy to revoke promises made to oneself, as Arendt suggests, then by the same token it is relatively easy to revoke promises made to those ‘close’ to oneself: in revoking a promise, one can always appeal to the other’s empathy. In that sense  intimacy weakens rather than strengthens accountability; after all, as Arendt reminds us (in true Augustinian fashion), the root of unpredict­ ability  – the predicament  that promising is to remedy – is not plurality but precisely the  unruliness of the human heart.88 The more intimate people 86 87 88

Cf. Idem, The Human Condition, pp. 192–9. Ibid., p. 237. Cf. Ibid., p. 244.

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are, therefore, the more their individual capriciousness blends into a single, collective capricious will.89 As Aristotle already suggested, concord, or ‘unanimity’ (ὁmόnoia), does not imply ‘identity’, having the same thoughts and opinions; nor does it necessarily mean knowing what’s going on in the other’s mind. Instead, it denotes the creative  unity emerging from the process of acting together, including the dynamics of mutual dependence and accountability that come with it. And it is precisely on account of this process, Arendt suggests, that the dynamic of friendship is intrinsically political.

III  Bell and Bonhoeffer: Acting politically? Thus far it has been shown how the dynamics of interaction in friendship might not only resemble and support the affairs of public life, but even resemble political forms of interaction (if not necessarily specifically governmental practices and procedures). Chapter 6 will explore these dynamics from a more explicitly theological perspective, with attention to mutual submission, in the context of Christian discipleship and church life. Yet it will be useful at this point to return to the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer, asking whether and how the insights gained from Aristotle and Arendt can help in interpreting their story.

Bell and Bonhoeffer acting together The first thing to note about Bell and Bonhoeffer is that their friendship was a friendship of action. And here one need not think of action in a specifically political sense. Whereas for many friendship is defined by conversation, relaxation or indeed just ‘feeding in the same place’ (NE 1170b13), the friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer emerged and developed in the context of their active lives. It was in the ‘rough and tumble’ of their professional lives, rather than on the edges, that they came to know each other as friends, seeking support from each other, amid the many commitments, the demands placed on them and their involvement in international networks. 89

This, incidentally, is exactly how in The Social Contract (1762) Rousseau envisages the volonté générale. In Book I, Chapter vii, he compares this ‘general will’ to the will of ‘an individual contracting with himself ’, explaining that therefore ‘there is no kind of fundamental law, and cannot be any, not even the social contract, which is binding on the people as a body’. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract (trans. Christopher Betts; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), p. 57. Cf. Arendt, ‘What is Freedom?’, p. 162.

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As was shown already in Chapter 2, their collaboration was not just partisan, but truly creative. Take, for example, the episode in which Bonhoeffer helped Bell in drafting the Ascension Day Message of 1934.90 Here, one could say, their common purpose emerged in the course of their collaboration, rather than as the result of negotiation or compromise. And this was because they were able to depend on each other. Bonhoeffer, who had been urging for sanctions against the authorities of the National Church in Germany, listened to Bell, who was more cautious. Bell, on his part, although more experienced in ecumenical relations, deferred to Bonhoeffer’s views concerning the correct wording of the letter. The resulting letter was no doubt better and more effective than anything either of the two could have produced on his own; the result was more than the sum of the friends’ initial contributions. As such, the process of collaboration was also mutually ‘empowering’. For by supporting and contributing to Bell’s initiative, it was seen, Bonhoeffer was able to offer support to his fellowpastors in Germany – and more effectively than if he had continued to insist on sanctions to the German Reichsbischof. Likewise, it was due to Bonhoeffer’s help and advice that Bell was able to draft a letter that was much clearer and more challenging in its message, and therefore more effective. In fact, this process of empowerment went beyond the relationship between these two friends. The Ascension Day Message offered vital support to the Confessing Church as it was preparing to convene at Barmen to articulate its position concerning the disturbing ecclesial and political developments in Germany. Indeed, one could argue that in empowering each other, Bell and Bonhoeffer opened up a space for others as well, allowing for and supporting further action, such as the issuing of the Barmen Declaration (1934). The episode of the 1934 Ascension Day Message thus offers an example of mutual dependence and mutual empowerment – dynamics that were identified above as important elements of ‘common action’. Indeed, one might say that in this episode Bell and Bonhoeffer can be seen as not only acting together, but (as Aristotle would put it) acting through each other. But does the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer also warrant a political interpreta­ tion of their common action? Apart from the fact that they acted together in politically fraught circumstances, can their collaboration be regarded as an instance of political interaction? Perhaps the episode most useful to answering this question is the secret meeting at Sigtuna, May 1942, already discussed at some length in Chapter 2 (Sections II and III). Following Arendt, one might describe 90

See Chapter 2, Section II.

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the interaction between Bell and Bonhoeffer during that meeting not only in terms of mutual dependence and empowerment, but also in terms of mutual promising. We saw earlier that Bell agreed to cooperate with the plan devised by the German resistance; that is, he ‘promised’ to do all he could to persuade the British government to back the resistance. We also saw that the moment at which he was finally persuaded to cooperate was not during his private talk with Bonhoeffer, but during the meeting of six pastors in which Bonhoeffer expressed vehemently his disapproval of Schönfeld’s mode of reasoning. What caused Bell to agree, then, was not so much his ‘intimate friendship’91 with Bonhoeffer as what Bonhoeffer had actually said. Bell’s promise, then, was a response to Bonhoeffer’s words about showing repentance on behalf of Germany (instead of seeking an optimal negotiation position for a post-war Germany).92 Chapters  5–7 will pay further attention to these words by Bonhoeffer, including their theological implications. Yet they can already be recognized as constituting a ‘promise’ of sorts. Bonhoeffer wanted Bell and his compatriots to know that, as far as he was concerned, there was no hidden agenda behind the message to be dispatched to London, that their offer of peace was unconditional. Thus Bonhoeffer assured Bell, and through him the Allied powers, that they could depend on them – in other words, a promise. The political significance of this moment perhaps also lies in the fact that this mutual promise was effectively the beginning of what could have developed into a process of peace negotiations. This is not to say, of course, that the friends’ mutual promising made redundant any further negotiations by diplomats, heads of state and governments. It is rather to highlight some dynamics in friendship which, in line with the discussion in the previous two chapters, could be identified as ‘parapolitical’: dynamics that would be indispensable for such a political process, and might as such prepare for and sustain it. The specific contribution of Arendt’s account of political dynamics, however, is twofold. First, with her account of the vita activa she helps us see the fluidity between public and political life, particularly the importance of free interaction (as in friendship) for the success of initiatives undertaken by those holding specifically political office. Secondly, her interpretation of power and promise allows for a more precise identification of the parapolitical nature of such interaction. 91

92

Gordon Rupp, ‘I seek my brethren’: Bishop Bell and the German Churches (London: Epworth Press, 1974), p. 9. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment: 1940–1945 (ed. Mark S. Brocker; trans. Lisa E. Dahill; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 16, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006), p. 300. See Chapter 2, Section III.

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Public or political? Thus Aristotle’s and Arendt’s accounts of friendship, public life and politics can contribute to the task of interpreting the case of Bell and Bonhoeffer. At the same time, however, it should be noted that these thinkers’ understanding of politics (and Arendt’s in particular) also complicates this task, especially within the overall theological context of this study. The key issue here is the definition of, and distinction between, ‘public’ and ‘political’. Chapter 1 already offered a provisional definition of the latter, which implied a distinction between it and public life more generally. This distinction was refined towards the end of that chapter, in response both to classical political ideology (‘civic life is the highest form of human existence’) and to Meilander’s severe theological critique of that ideology (‘civic life is merely instrumental, for the sake of justice’).93 In response to Meilaender, I suggested that public life should be regarded as a distinct sphere, mediating the private and political spheres. In other words, one can engage in civic life without necessarily engaging in political tasks (which Meilaender considers merely instrumental). Yet now it has become clear that to make this point is also to question the account of political life as described by Aristotle and Arendt. Public life may contribute to political processes, in particular where its discourse contributes to political deliberation and decision-making, yet this does not render all public affairs political. Allowing these concepts to collapse into each other means they become less useful in describing and interpreting human society, leaving explorations such as this study too vague. The fact that Aristotle does not clearly distinguish between public life and specifically political tasks should not surprise us, of course. Aristotle, it was pointed out in Chapter 1, belongs to a world in which public life is the privilege of a few, and political office its pinnacle. This is a world that has not (yet) heard of the Kingdom of God, to which all earthly cities will one day have to yield, and the prospect of which already renders earthly political powers ‘secular’, or ‘temporal’ (that is, instrumental and provisional). Arendt, however, makes what seems a deliberate return to this classical world. As is clear from her political writings in general, what she hopes for is the revival of a world in which political action is an end in itself. Arendt has very good reasons for seeking this revival, reasons relating to the political upheavals of the twentieth century, some of which will be considered in the next chapter. Furthermore, if Arendt seeks to disabuse us of the notion that 93

See Chapter 1, Section III.

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politics is the preserve of bureaucrats and professional politicians, then of course there is little to object. Indeed, this emphasis is particularly useful to the project in this study of exploring the (para)political dynamics of friendship. However, Arendt goes further than that, identifying all action as political, explaining politics simply in terms of the ‘human affairs’ taking place in public – without at least distinguishing different uses of ‘political’ (or ‘politics’). The purpose of the public realm is political action, whereas political action preserves the public realm. If one would object that this is circular, then Arendt would probably agree. As in the classical polis, politics is supposed to be an end in itself, an activity worth engaging in for its own sake. The practice of promise, for example, is political insofar as it secures further action and interaction, even though the latter, too, are intrinsically ‘political’. For Arendt ‘the content of properly political action is politics itself ’.94 Oliver O’Donovan seeks to explain Arendt’s synonymous use of ‘public’ and ‘political’ by drawing attention to her rather dismissive attitude to the ‘private’ sphere. He observes that Arendt was ‘somewhat hypnotized by the household as the paradigm alternative to public engagement, characterizing it wholly negatively in terms of consumption’.95 Indeed, Arendt reserves the terms ‘social’ and ‘society’ for what she regards as inflated forms of the household, such as envisaged in the modern welfare state.96 And this may well have prevented her from recognizing society (as Chapter 1 did) as a sphere involving genuinely public life and interaction, without, for that reason, being intrinsically political.97 Our question, then, is exactly where public interaction (including friendship) ceases to be civic only, and begins to be political in a specific sense.98 This distinction matters to the tasks of interpreting the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer. We want to be sure that an account of their friendship in terms of its ‘parapolitical’ dynamics does not end up highlighting aspects of public life only – however important and relevant such a finding in itself might be. More relevant here is the question of whether these dynamics resemble specifically political practices 94

95 96 97

98

George Kateb, ‘Political Action: Its Nature and Advantages’, in The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt (ed. Dana Villa; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 130–48 (133–4). O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 56. See above, footnotes 63 and 75. I have found one passage, however, in which Arendt does make this distinction. Concerning the Augustinian transformation of Christianity, she observes it meant ‘dab die Gläubigen in der Welt einen ganz und gar neuen, religiös bestimmten öffentlichen Raum konstituierten, der, obwohl öffentlich, nicht politisch war’ (emphasis added). Arendt, Was ist Politik?, p. 64. Cf. Elizabeth Frazer, ‘Hannah Arendt: The Risks of the Ppublic Realm’, Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 12:2 (2009), pp. 203–23 (203–4).

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of tasks, such as the provision of justice. And it is clear that up till now the interpretation of Bell and Bonhoeffer’s story has not attained this level of precision. Or, to put it differently: the two episodes referred to above illustrate the need to distinguish more precisely between ‘public’ and ‘political’ (without, of course, separating them). Bell and Bonhoeffer may indeed have done more than engage in public life, insofar as they attempted to intervene in political processes. Yet much of the significance of the episodes referred to earlier lies in the resistance and defiance to which they witness. What we have seen thus far is not so much political practices as challenges to political developments. In 1934, Bell and Bonhoeffer were acting together in opposition to the German church authorities. Likewise, in 1942, their agreement at Sigtuna was in support of the German resistance. One could argue, of course, that insofar as such defiance rested on genuine promise, it also meant a restoration of politics. Indeed, one might argue – with Arendt – that the most genuine form of politics is found where people act together in defiance of tyranny.99 But it should also be possible to recognize such politics in contexts other than that of political opposition. If not, then one is left wondering – in line with Augustine’s provocative question – how to distinguish between legitimate politics and criminal cooperation.100 To search for a specifically political practice is to look for a practice such as hinted at by Arendt in her discussion of promising, yet which she fails to distinguish clearly from other acts performed in the public realm. Political action in this more specific sense would consist not just in ‘opening up’ a public realm, but more specifically in authoritatively defending and vindicating it: not merely by opposing tyranny but also by exposing it as the pseudo-politics that it is.101 Developing such a refined account of political practice will surely help in establishing the extent to which there is politics in friendship, including the significance of such politics. The following chapter will turn to the practice of judgement. The aim will be to establish to what extent this practice might be identified as the heart of all specifically political practice – and hence of parapolitical practice in friendship too.

Cf. Arendt, On Revolution, pp. 266–7. Cf. Augustine, The City of God IV 4. Cf. Lewis: ‘In each knot of Friends there is a sectional “public opinion.” . . . Each is therefore a pocket of potential resistance.’ Lewis, The Four Loves, pp. 96–7. 101 Cf. Chapter 1, Section I.   99 100

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The previous chapter finished with the observation that in The Human Condition Arendt does not sufficiently distinguish between the public and political spheres of society, and their corresponding practices. This chapter, however, in attending to the practice of judgement, will draw on essays in which Arendt is sensitive to  the distinctly political character of that practice. After describing how the theme of judgement emerges in Arendt’s writings (Section I), the discussion will turn to The Ways of Judgement by moral theologian Oliver O’Donovan, with a view to developing Arendt’s insights into a more systematic account of political agency, as well as tracing the theological parameters of judgement (Section II). In the final section the focus will return to friendship, in order to explore whether and to what extent political judgement might be exercised among friends, in preparation of Chapter 5, where the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer will be revisited.

I  Responding to evil Despite the fact that in The Human Condition Arendt seeks to foreground the vita activa, in subsequent work she is increasingly intrigued by judgement: a practice primarily belonging to the vita contemplativa. Thus it was as part of her work The Life of the Mind (1971) that Arendt intended to write a volume on judgement as well, to complement the existing volumes ‘Thinking’ and ‘Willing’ (a plan cut short by her death in 1975). Nevertheless, judgement also belongs to the life of action: it involves reflection on human affairs taking place in the world. Indeed, as Arendt emphasizes, judgement cannot be exercised in isolation – in the privacy of thought – but only in the company of others. Giving an account of Arendt’s understanding of judgement is not a straightforward exercise. With the third volume of The Life of the Mind unwritten,

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we are left with relevant passages scattered throughout her writings. On several occasions Arendt’s observations on judgement are prompted by her reflections on the horrors of twentieth-century totalitarianism, and the Holocaust in particular. Before turning to these reflections, however, I wish to consider a section in The Human Condition that can be seen as preparing for her later observations concerning judgement. In this section Arendt presents forgiveness as a parallel to the practice of promising – the quasi-political practice discussed in the previous chapter.

Forgiveness The public realm requires practices such as promising in order to maintain its integrity and ‘openness’, and to continue to exist as a genuinely public realm in the first place. Yet while promising has the salutary effect of sustaining a public sphere of action, promises are not normally made with that political purpose in view, but rather in order to allow for specific, more or less private undertakings (e.g., the exchange of marriage vows, or the signing of a commercial contract). Such promises may create ‘islands of predictability’,1 providing dependability for third parties and thereby sustaining the integrity of the public realm. Yet they are not normally made explicitly with this public interest in mind. In terms of specifically political practice, as defined earlier,2 this means that while a promise may serve the purpose of political and/or governmental practice – safeguarding the integrity of public life in society3 – it is not necessarily a political and/or governmental act in itself. Few promises are made specifically in order to protect the integrity of society’s public life, let alone with the authority of society. Promising is primarily prospective rather than remedial, insofar as it is practised in order to enable new undertakings and courses of action. It is typically an outcome of basic practical reason, rather than moral and political deliberation – the more specialized ‘branches’ of practical reason. It is precisely in this respect, however, that forgiveness complements promising. Arendt points out that while promising deals with the unpredictability of action, forgiveness deals with its irreversibility: the same problem, but seen from 1 2 3

Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1998), p. 244. Chapter 1, Section I. Note that ‘society’ is used here in a broad sense used in Chapter 1, according to which it includes both public and private spheres of human society (or specific political societies), rather than the highly restrictive sense in which Arendt uses it. Cf. Chapter 3, Section III.

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a different perspective.4 If in promising we seek to prevent or at least protect ourselves against unwanted consequences, then in forgiveness we seek to respond to them once they have occurred. We cannot undo what we have done, or what has happened; yet when we forgive we break through a cycle of action and reaction that binds both agent and sufferer, preventing them from acting freely.5 ‘In this respect’, Arendt writes, ‘forgiveness is the exact opposite of vengeance’. Vengeance is a ‘form of re-acting against an original trespassing, whereby far from putting an end to the consequences of the first misdeed, everybody remains bound to the process, permitting the chain reaction contained in every action to take its unhindered course’.6 To forgive is to step out of this chain, to overstep the trespass for the sake of the trespasser, and indeed for one’s own sake. Hence forgiveness is not a mere reaction, but a response – a genuinely new act. An act of forgiveness is ‘unconditioned by the act which provoked it and therefore freeing from its consequences both the one who forgives and the one who is forgiven’.7 While Arendt thus places forgiveness alongside promising as a second ‘remedy’ against the predicaments of unpredictability and irreversibility, forgiveness arguably comes closer to being a political practice. Of course, forgiveness is primarily a practice concerning the relations and affairs of individuals, rather than a community as a whole. And perhaps this is true even more of forgiveness than promising: whereas the salutary effect of a mutual promise can extend beyond the original parties, forgiveness tends to focus on a particular individual – someone responsible for (and arguably the victim of) a misdeed and its consequences. However, the remedy of forgiveness is retrospective, thus resembling political practice as defined in Chapter 1. Indeed, insofar it aims to respond to and overcome wrongdoing, forgiveness resembles the judicial dimension that was identified as distinguishing political practice from other public undertakings. In fact, Arendt herself hints at this resemblance when she identifies punish­ ment as an alternative to forgiveness. What they have in common, she explains, 4

5

6 7

Arendt, The Human Condition, pp. 236–7. The relation between the irreversibility and unpredict­ ability – like the relation between past and future – is not entirely symmetrical. Promising deals with unpredictability, whereas forgiveness deals with unpredictability as well as irreversibility: because human action results in unpredictable and often unwanted consequences, irreversibility becomes a problem threatening the conditions of common action and social life more generally. Arendt observes that forgiveness, as much as promising, depends on plurality: just as no one can credibly make promises to himself, no one can forgive himself. See Ibid., pp. 237, 242–3. Cf. Chapter 3, Section II. Ibid., pp. 240–1. Ibid., p. 241.

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is ‘that they attempt to put an end to something that without interference could go on endlessly’.8 The similarity is such that ‘men are unable to forgive what they cannot punish and  .  .  . are unable to punish what has turned out to be unforgivable’.9 Punishment is a judicial practice; despite the fact it always con­cerns particular cases, punishment gives expression to public judgement – the kind of intervention that was identified in Chapter 1 as the preserve of political authority. Insofar as forgiveness resembles punishment, then, it resembles this political act of judgement. While these may be at home in different spheres – forgiveness in personal encounter, judgement in the courts and the various political forums – there is an obvious internal connection: how can one forgive someone without knowing what one forgives her for; that is, one cannot forgive her without having judged her actions (or at least having accepted the judgement offered by others). Arendt is even more explicit on this connection: ‘Every judgment is open to forgiveness, every act of judging can change into an act of forgiving; to judge and to forgive are but the two sides of the same coin.’10 Forgiveness and judgement, then, are at least complementary;11 that is, they are complementary ways of responding to wrongdoing, practised in the hope of overcoming its debilitating effect on shared life and interaction in society. Forgiveness resembles judicial practice in that it aims at safeguarding and protecting the ‘integrity’ of social life, even if forgiveness does so (primarily) at a personal level. It is in this respect, at best, that forgiveness carries real political significance that is lacking in the practice of promising. Thus Arendt’s later reflections on judgement are already foreshadowed in her account of forgiveness. It is interesting to see, of course, that she highlights a practice that is central to Christian theology, ecclesiology and ethics. Arendt is certainly not unaware of the religious dimension of forgiveness. Indeed, in The Human Condition she points to Jesus of Nazareth as the ‘discoverer of the role of forgiveness in the realm of human affairs’.12 However, she also contends that Jesus considered forgiveness to be only a human power, not deriving from or depending on divine forgiveness. Thus she allows herself to leave aside the   8   9 10

11

12

Ibid. Ibid. On evil deemed to be beyond the reach of human forgiveness, see below. Hannah Arendt, ‘Bertold Brecht: 1898–1956’, in Men in Dark Times (New York: Harcourt, 1968), pp.  207–49 (248). Republished in Idem, Reflections on Literature and Culture (ed. Susannah Young-ah Gottlieb; Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2007). Differences remain, of course: ‘The majesty of the law demands that we be equal – that only our acts count, and not the person who committed them. The act of forgiving, on the contrary, takes the person into account; no pardon pardons murder or theft but only the murderer or the thief . . . while justice demands that all be equal, mercy insists on inequality.’ Idem, ‘Bertold Brecht: 1898–1956’, p. 248. Idem, The Human Condition, p. 238.

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‘religious context’ in which Jesus discovered the power of forgiveness and the ‘religious language’ in which he articulated it.13 It is true that Jesus calls his followers to practise forgiveness as well as seek to receive forgiveness from God. The Lord’s Prayer itself could be taken to suggest that our ability to forgive is a condition for God forgiving our sins: ‘and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors’ (Mt. 6.12). Nevertheless, the point of Jesus’ parable of the Unforgiving Servant (Mt. 18.23–35) is that in failing to forgive we do not prevent God from forgiving us, but rather forfeit the forgiveness already received from God. It is not at all obvious, then, that Jesus’ teaching on forgiveness can be isolated from its ‘religious context’.14 Since Arendt seeks to understand forgiveness as a practice that lies fully within our human powers, without reference to divine grace, it is perhaps no surprise that in her account the scope of forgiveness is fairly restricted. As suggested by her comment quoted earlier (concerning the relation between forgiveness and punishment), she considers certain deeds ‘unforgivable’.15 Forgiveness is a remedy against unpredictability compounded by irreversibility, against processes of action and interaction that have spiralled out of control. Forgiveness, then, is a remedy for ‘unsuccessful’ action, and especially its unintended consequences and ramifications. It is powerless in the face of acts that were intended to be harmful and destructive. In The Human Condition Arendt uses Kant’s category of ‘radical evil’ to describe such deliberately wrongful acts: evil that can no longer be explained in terms of unpredictability and irreversibility, but which is evil in its ‘root’ (radix). The vita activa has no remedies for such evil. ‘Here’, Arendt writes, ‘. . . we can only repeat with Jesus: “It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea.”’16 With her puzzled silence in the face of evil Arendt suggests we are dealing here with a mystery - a mystery that in Christian theology is known as the mystery of sin. To describe evil as sin, a falling away from God (in line with Gen. 3) is not to ‘explain’ it, but rather to highlight its dramatic character. Yet, theologically, to regard sin a mystery is not to imply that it is insurmountable. Despite Jesus’ grim words about drowning evildoers, in Mark 9.42, sin is insurmountable only from a strictly human perspective; the message that 13 14

15 16

Ibid., pp. 238–9. Tellingly, in the original, German version of The Human Condition Arendt uses the word Verzeihung (‘pardon’) and Vergebung (‘forgiveness’) – the term normally used in German Bible translations – as if they were synonymous. Cf. Idem, Vita Activa – oder Vom tätigen Leben (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1960), pp. 231–8. Idem, The Human Condition, p. 241. Ibid. Cf. Mk 9.42.

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God’s forgiveness and mercy are unrestricted is at the very core of the gospel message. In other words, Arendt’s ‘capitulation’ before evil is of a piece with her insistence that forgiveness is a human power only. Both are unsurprising, perhaps, given her commitment to providing a secular account of human affairs. But it means she must ignore practices of forgiveness that take place in a ‘religious context’ and use ‘religious language’. Moreover, she thereby denies herself any chance to consider the potentially political significance of such practices. And this is worth noting especially in relation to the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer, which, as will be argued in following chapters, cannot be fully understood without serious engagement with forgiveness and repentance as key Christian (and ecclesial) practices. The account of judgement that Arendt develops in later publications, however, is less determined by these limitations. Indeed, while in The Human Condition she considers forgiveness powerless in the face of evil, in her later work she identifies judgement as the appropriate response – the only response – to the challenge of evil.

Judgement In The Human Condition Arendt presents forgiveness as a ‘remedy’ for a parti­cular type of predicament: through forgiveness, human beings can limit and defuse the harmful yet unintended consequences of their actions. In subsequent works, however, she considers how human beings might respond to harmful acts and consequences that cannot solely be described in terms of unpredictability and human fallibility, and therefore lie beyond the power of forgiveness. In other words, how might human beings respond to evil – the kind of harmfulness that is intrinsically malicious? In The Human Condition Arendt still holds there is no proper response to evil. She revisits the issue in subsequent writings, however, and begins in that context to pay more attention to judgement as well.17 Indeed, it is here that Arendt’s reflections move into more specifically political territory, where (human) forgiveness is no longer sufficient or appropriate. Once

17

Another type of predicament, not discussed here, is presented by the phenomenon of acting ‘into’ nature, as Arendt calls it. Boundlessness and unpredictability are introduced into the realm of nature – formerly affected merely by labour and work – insofar as experiments and applications of theory lead to the unleashing of forces the power of which nobody could have fathomed. Indeed, in the case of nuclear power, its destructiveness is beyond human control. Ibid., pp. 3, 230–2, 238. Cf. Mary G. Dietz, ‘Arendt and the Holocaust’, in The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt (ed. Dana Villa; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 86–109 (95).

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individual agents are no longer able to overcome wrong through forgiveness, with a complete breakdown in relationships, the responsibility to respond shifts to the community as a whole, and its political representatives in particular. Judgement is the political remedy to wrongdoing. Judgement names the wrong that has been perpetrated, and through this naming releases the community as well as the individual perpetrator(s) and victim(s) from the stranglehold of that wrong. Arendt discusses the practice of judgement in various essays and passages.18 One might expect her to focus here on the criminal justice system, and the judicial tasks of government more broadly, as the shape that judgement normally takes. After all, it is especially here that the political community (represented by public officers) can be seen to ‘step in’, intervening in conflicts between groups and/or individual citizens. However, Arendt is less concerned with the routine exercise of judgement, mediated through well-established institutions and sustained by moral and legal codes. Instead, she is interested in those circumstances when judgement is most urgently needed, and yet unlikely to be provided by established political authorities. That is to say: circumstances when judgement is called for particularly by a failure of judgement on the part of the very institutions and officers supposedly responsible for that task. Arendt’s analysis of such political crises will be useful in determining the extent to which political judgement might become the responsibility of ordinary citizens, including friends like Bell and Bonhoeffer. However, instead of immediately turning to such ‘extraordinary’ circumstances, it will be useful first to describe the regular, institutionally mediated exercise of political judgement.

II  Judgement as political act A useful analysis of political judgement is offered by Oliver O’Donovan in his book The Ways of Judgment (2005).19 O’Donovan’s account of judgement has already featured in the background, suggesting that the task of government constitutes the core of political activity.20 It is appropriate at this point to consider his analysis in more detail. 18

19 20

See ‘The Crisis in Culture’ (1960) and ‘Truth and Politics’ (1964), published in Hannah Arendt, Between Past and Future: Eight Exercises in Political Thought (London: Penguin Books, 2006). The essays ‘Political Responsibility uder Dictatorship’ (1964), ‘Some Questions of Moral Philosophy’ (1965–6) and ‘Thinking and Moral Considerations’ (1971) are published in Idem, Responsibility and Judgment (ed. Jerome Kohn; New York: Schocken, 2003). Cf. also Arendt’s 1970 lectures on Kant: Idem, Lectures on Kant’s Political Philosophy (ed. Ronald Beiner; Brighton: Harvester, 1992). Oliver O’Donovan, The Ways of Judgment (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), p. 10. See Chapter 1, Section I.

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Given his explicitly theological interests, it is no surprise that O’Donovan – like Arendt – considers judgement and forgiveness as closely related practices. However, for O’Donovan judgement is not just an alternative to forgiveness, or vice versa. Judgement and forgiveness are rather two sides of the same coin, with divine mercy as a unifying factor. In the Old Testament Israel has to learn that God’s judgements ultimately aim for and achieve forgiveness and reconciliation – a truth the church recognizes as being fulfilled in the passion and resurrection of Christ.21 Forgiveness is premised on God’s judgement of sin, while judgement aims for forgiveness and reconciliation. God’s judgements, then, are simultaneously redemptive and condemnatory.22 Certainly, in secular society pubic officers often can find no other response to wrongdoing than punishment, as an expression of judgement. Yet the reason is not that the wrongdoing in question cannot be redeemed at all, but rather that redeeming it lies beyond the power of human forgiveness – or at least for the moment. In the absence of forgiveness and reconciliation, all society can do is set limits to private vengeance, and provide a modicum of justice through judgement and punishment. Yet O’Donovan’s whole discussion is premised on the understanding that in Christ’s death and resurrection God not only judges but also forgives our offences – and thereby opens a way for us to forgive each other.23 In the light of this eschatological horizon, one could be tempted to dismiss any ongoing human judicial practice as failing to recognize the cosmic and comprehensive scope of God’s judgement in Christ – particularly in the light of Jesus’ injunction not to judge (Mt. 7.1). And this is indeed the general thrust of O’Donovan’s argument, particularly in Part III of The Ways of Judgment. Nevertheless he maintains, in line with Martin Luther, that ‘within the New Testament the sphere of public judgement constitutes a carefully circumscribed and specially privileged exception to a general prohibition of judgment’.24 So what does judgement look like in detail, and in what sense is it a political task? The central thesis of The Ways of Judgment is not just that judgement is ‘a’ 21 22

23

24

Cf. Isa. 65; Hos. 13–14; Rom. 11. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, pp. 13–30, 84–100. Cf. also Guido de Graaff, ‘To Judge or Not to Judge: Engaging with Oliver O’Donovan’s Political Ethics’, SCE 25:3 (2012), pp. 295–311 (303). O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 87. Cf. Idem, The Desire of the Nations: Rediscovering the Roots of Political Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 120–57. Concerning the judgement suffered in and with Christ, Bonhoeffer states that ‘out of [it] rises the new self which has died to the world and to sin’. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship (ed. Geffrey B. Kelly and John Godsey; trans. Barbara Green and Reinhard Krauss; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 4, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), p. 208. See also Oliver O’Donovan, On the Thirty-Nine Articles: A Conversation with Tudor Christianity (London: SCM Press, 2011), pp. 24–5. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 99. Cf. Luther’s Temporal Authority (1523), in Martin Luther, Christian in Society II (ed. Walther I. Brandt; Luther’s Works, vol. 45, Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1962), pp. 83–104.

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political task, but more specifically that ‘[t]he authority of government resides in the practice of judgment’.25 In other words, in line with the suggestion made already in Chapter 1, judgement is the political task. At its core, governmental practice consists in judgement in the sense of responding to injustice and wrongdoing, be it through (coercive) intervention, protection, prosecution, punishment, redress or legislation. Such judgement is political because, in responding to wrong, it aims at preserving and protecting society as a public realm in which citizens can live, communicate and act together – society, that is, as ‘a sphere of freedom wider than any we might project from our private undertakings’.26 Most forms of activity and enterprise, private or common, shape, contribute to and depend on this public realm. Yet it is not the purpose of these activities themselves to sustain and preserve this realm; the latter is rather the social framework in which these activities can be realized, and are meaningful, in the first place. In fact, O’Donovan maintains, the contours and importance of the public realm become explicit only where it is under threat: where life within the community is being undermined, either by intentional wrongdoing or by structural injustice, and the community finds itself compelled to respond. It is in the face of such threats that the political task emerges: to limit and coordinate the agency of the community in order to defend it.27 In order genuinely to preserve society’s freedom, the political task must consist in nothing less than judgement. That is to say: it cannot deal with wrong simply through force but rather by way of publicly naming and condemning the wrong that has been done. Only insofar as judgement thus remains a genuine response (rather than a mere reaction) can it succeed in preserving the freedom and integrity of society, allowing it to move on despite the offence committed. The public realm is thus vindicated by public acts of moral discrimination, ‘enacting right against wrong’.28 Such judgements are not identical, however, to the ‘judgements’ of practical reason, or even most moral judgements.29 To be sure, political judgments are moral: they respond to certain acts (or states of affairs) by pronouncing whether, and in which sense, these constitute wrong. Nevertheless, political judgement is a specific kind of moral judgement: while moral judgement may take place in contexts ranging from private reflection 25 26 27

28 29

O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 3. Ibid., p. 55. As O’Donovan puts it, political action involves members of society accepting constraints upon their actions and communications precisely in order to preserve their common freedom. It is through such political ‘solidarity’ that a public realm manifests itself in the first place. Ibid., pp. 54–5. Ibid., p. 5. De Graaff, ‘To Judge or Not to Judge’, pp. 297–300. A discussion of aesthetic judgement will follow in Section III below.

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to public debates, political judgements are pronounced not only in the public context of society but also with the authority of society.30 The judgements of practical reason, by contrast, are not necessarily moral at all, and are perhaps better described as the conclusions of practical reason, or ‘decisions’. They need not involve more than discrimination between various courses of action, which may be more or less commendable. Often the choice is merely between whether or not to act at all: ‘Shall I apply for this job?’ Practical reason is determined by a horizon of future possibilities – a horizon that, in political judgement, is overshadowed by the finality of what has already been done, or lamentably left undone. Thus, whereas decisions (like promising) are forward-looking, proposing a course of action, judgements are reflective and retrospective. This does not preclude political judgements from having any prospective dimension. To say that judgement vindicates the public sphere is already to suggest that it is performed with a view to enabling future action. Thus O’Donovan states that judgement ‘both pronounces retrospectively on, and clears space prospectively for, actions that are performed within a community’.31 Indeed, he proposes the  following definition: ‘judgment is an act of moral discrimination that pronounces upon a preceding act or existing state of affairs to establish a new public context.’32 This account of judgement functions as the essential tool in O’Donovan’s undertaking of developing a coherent theological description of political agency, one that is capable of explaining the practices of secular political authority (which will one day cease) as well as the kingly rule of God (which will be everlasting).33 The emphasis in The Ways of Judgment is mostly on judgement exercised representatively, on behalf of (a) society (that is, exercised either by fallible and corruptible human representatives, or exercised ‘once and for all’ through Christ, the true representative of both God and humanity).34 The notion of judgement being the core political practice is meant to enable us to understand the multiple operations of government and public services as nevertheless belonging to a single task. ‘Judgement’ is presented as the common rationale permeating and unifying operations as diverse as prosecution, parliamentary debate and diplomacy.35 Still, the underlying assumption is that, however diverse 30

31 32 33 34 35

In fact, O’Donovan considers such political judgement to be the primary form of judgement, other forms of judgement being derivative; cf. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, pp. 10–11. Ibid., p. 9. Ibid., p. 7. De Graaff, ‘To Judge or Not to Judge’, pp. 300–5. Cf. O’Donovan, Desire of the Nations, pp. 120–33. See Chapter 1, Section I.

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the political tasks of judgement might be, the authority to exercise them falls on those whom a society recognizes as its representatives (be it through royal succession, elections or even revolution). In other words, political authority is not the business of the man in the street. O’Donovan qualifies this restriction substantially in Part III of The Ways of Judgment, where he approaches his subject from a more eschatological and ecclesiological perspective. Here the church emerges as a community that, though shaped by Jesus’ injunction not to judge one’s neighbour (Mt. 7.1), is nevertheless called to exercise judgement in and through its practices, within the confines of God’s judgement in Christ. This perspective will be crucial for this book’s analysis of the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer in subsequent chapters.36 At this point, however, it is important to note that even in the case of secular society, O’Donovan allows for the authority of judgement to fall to individual citizens. This is already implied in the notion that political representation can be transferred effectively and legitimately through revolutions: someone who yesterday was a ‘man on the street’ may emerge tomorrow as the people’s representative. O’Donovan, like Arendt, reminds liberal society that transfer of power is less scripted than political theories would make us believe.37 Yet even in less revolutionary circumstances, individual citizens can get involved in the exercise of judgement – and not just by participating in the debates that inform political judgement and decision-making. There are moments and situations when judgement is required immediately, and when the official bearers are not there (yet) to provide it. In developed societies this task of immediate judgement falls upon the police force in the first instance. Police officers do not of course exercise judgement in the sense that a judge is authorized to do. They answer to instances of crime in the heat of the moment, using coercive means to prevent injury (as in traffic control), their prime concern being to protect and restrain. Their intervention is a genuine form of judgement, however; coercion is intelligible as authoritative action only when consisting in a condemnation of wrong. Nevertheless, police judgement must be provisional only, as suspects are ‘handed over’ to the public prosecutor, who in turn must defer to the verdict of courts. The police’s task, as O’Donovan puts it, is merely ‘to make [arrests] safely and bring [suspects] to court’.38 Yet even the best organized police forces cannot be everywhere; 36 37

38

See, for example, Chapter 5, Section III. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 162. Cf. Hannah Arendt, On Revolution (Middlesex: Penguin, 1973), pp. 21–58. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, pp. 207–8.

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there are emergency situations when no-one other than a private citizen can intervene, for example when he or she witnesses a fellow-citizen being mugged or harassed. In such cases we speak of ‘citizen’s arrest’, a task that individual citizens may accept in order to maintain ‘the peace’. The phrase is normally used for the task of physically restraining and halting the offender pending the arrival of the authorities. But there are other forms of intervention, of course, such as directing traffic immediately after an accident. What these scenarios suggest is that in certain circumstances individual citizens do indeed have a share in the authority to judge, even though theirs is still more provisional and circumscribed than the police’s. O’Donovan refers here to the principle of iudicium cessans, meaning ‘cessation’ or ‘failure of judgement’. He explains: ‘The principle of iudicium cessans rests on the supposition that there can never be a vacuum of judgment; when ordinary organs of judgment cannot function, extraordinary ones must be devised.’ This principle, O’Donovan continues, ‘permits even a private citizen to exercise political authority in risking an assailant’s life to save a victim’.39 The principle of iudicium cessans underscores the notion that, even though judgement is normally a task reserved for political authorities, there are moments when it falls on the shoulders of individual citizens. In other words, while judgement is normally mediated by political office, such office is not essential to the practice of judgement itself. Alternatively, one might say that political office derives from political practice – not the other way around. Indeed, political office loses its authority once the office-holder fails to exercise judgement. This observation is significant to the topic of this chapter, and indeed this study, for it suggests at least one sense in which judgement might be practised also in the context of friendship – that is, not just friendship between political office-holders, but especially friendship between private citizens. In Chapter 5 this suggestion will be explored further with reference to the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer. Prior to that, it will be useful to return to Arendt’s exploration of judgement. As noted earlier, compared to O’Donovan’s discussion of judgement, her exploration focuses even less on the regular official exercise of judgement. O’Donovan’s account of emergency judgement assumes that judgement is a response to particular instances of wrongdoing. Indeed, his account of emergency situations presupposes a political order that by and large is capable of offering such a response. Arendt, however, is mainly interested in situations where the latter is no longer the case. In particular, Arendt focuses

39

Ibid., p. 208.

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on the question as to what judgement might look like in political crises. Her answer, too, is significant (though in a different way), for an understanding of judgement in friendship, especially in extraordinary circumstances such as encountered by Bell and Bonhoeffer.

Judgement in political crises For Arendt, judgement is not so much an established practice as a challenge. If in O’Donovan’s analysis judgement is the practice by which we can recognize political authority, in Arendt’s writings the emphasis lies on the need for judgement in certain political circumstances, especially circumstances that signal a political ‘deficit’. The challenge presents itself when an entire political society suffers a failure of judgement – that is, not just the occasional judicial ‘vacuum’ (as discussed earlier), but a systemic failure of judgement across political officeholders and institutions. This is a failure of judgement that threatens the very civility and indeed humanity of a society. Here, the exercise of judgement is no longer a political response to particular instances of wrongdoing, but rather an attempt to defend the political nature of society as such – as a community ruled by justice rather than, say, physical strength or collective utility. Already in The Human Condition Arendt alludes to this more profound type of crisis, in her analysis of the time-honoured substitution of ‘making’ for ‘acting’.40 Human relationships cease to be genuinely human if ‘making’ is allowed to become the paradigm for governing the public realm, as it means replacing the power of action and interaction with force. Judgement is a type of action, not making. Even though it seeks, to use O’Donovan’s phrase, to ‘establish a new public context’, and this regularly through the use of coercion, judgement is nevertheless a response to wrongful action; it does not seek to ‘solve’ the problem, for example by way of simply eliminating the troublesome perpetrator, or through the imposition of draconian restrictions on society. Indeed, once political authorities resort to such measures, they cease to exercise judgement. In such cases governance is reduced to mere coercion – the very condition from which it is supposed to release society – seducing society in a way of life that reduces citizens into objects of manipulation. To judge in such circumstances is not simply to condemn particular crimes (although that too), but rather to condemn a failure of judgement in precisely those institutions and officials that are charged with the task of judgement. 40

Arendt, The Human Condition, pp. 220–30.

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In  such circumstances, the challenge of judgement is profound because the crisis of judgement is profound. It is not surprising that for the author of The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951) the prime example of failed judgement is the totalitarianism Europe experienced in the twentieth century. Nor is it surprising that Arendt focuses on the terrorization, deportation and murder of millions of Jews and other minorities in Nazi Germany and Nazi-occupied Europe. Arendt was Jewish herself, born and raised in Germany, where she witnessed the rise of Nazism during the 1930s. She ultimately managed to escape her homeland, first to France and then to the United States.41 Arendt’s reflections of judgement are clearly shaped through her ongoing attempts, throughout the 1960s and 1970s, to come to terms with the political horrors that in The Human Condition are only mentioned implicitly.42 For Arendt, coming to terms with horrors such as those perpetrated under Nazism means to renounce the help of existing canons of law and morality. Such canons no longer function in a society and political system as thoroughly corrupted as Germany was during Nazi rule. Injustice had become systemic; the atrocities would not have been committed had not millions of citizens and minor officials given their support, either active or passive.43 As Arendt argues in an essay called ‘Personal Responsibility Under Dictatorship’ (1964), a society in which evil has become so widespread loses its moral and legal bearings: concepts such as ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ are no longer meaningful. Where crime has become the rule rather than the exception, or indeed is disguised as law, and where the extermination of an entire people is reduced to ‘a medical matter’,44 there is hardly a discernible moral order to be vindicated. Thus Arendt speaks of a collapse of traditional morality, including the traditional standards of judgement: a collapse of ‘the few rules and standards according to which men used to tell right from wrong, and which were invoked to judge or justify others and themselves, and whose validity was supposed to be self-evident to every 41

42

43

44

As for Arendt’s escape from Germany to Paris in 1933, and from Paris to New York in 1940, see Elisabeth Young-Bruehl, Hannah Arendt: For Love of the World (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982), pp. 115–63. For example, Arendt refers to ‘the murderous consequences inherent in a line of thought that forces one to admit that all means, provided that they are efficient, are permissible and justified to pursue something defined as an end’. Arendt, The Human Condition, p. 229. Dietz quotes this passage in support of her claim that in order to appreciate The Human Condition properly one needs to recognize that the Holocaust plays an important role in the background. Dietz, ‘Arendt and the Holocaust’, p. 98. Cf. Hannah Arendt, ‘Personal Responsibility Under Dictatorship’, in Responsibility and Judgment (ed. Jerome Kohn; New York: Schocken, 2003), pp. 17–48. Ibid., p. 43.

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sane person either as a part of divine or of natural law’.45 The evil witnessed in the twentieth century stands out from traditional wrong, Arendt suggests, insofar as it was no longer restrained by established morals. Perversely, traditional morality even contributed to evil: in German society, the strong sense of duty, for example, proved to be a crucial factor in people’s willingness to collaborate with the Nazis.46 Old precepts where replaced by new ones: ‘Thou shalt not kill’ changed almost overnight into the exact opposite.47 Remarkably, Arendt’s account of the failure of traditional moral principles echoes reflections by Bonhoeffer on the same topic. Bonhoeffer, assessing the moral resources available to himself and his compatriots after 10 years of Nazism, writes in ‘After Ten Years’ (1942): ‘The great masquerade of evil has played havoc with all our ethical concepts.’48 Traditional principles such as ‘reasonableness’, ‘conscience’, ‘duty’, ‘freedom’ and ‘virtue’ all proved powerless, he argues, in the face of the evil unleashed by Nazism.49 For Arendt, however, to recognize this collapse of morality is to begin to see an answer to evil that goes beyond ‘speechless horror’.50 The collapse of traditional standards of judgement does not mean that society has turned into a society of devils. The Nazi crimes, Arendt points out, ‘were not committed by outlaws, monsters, or raving sadists, but by the most respectable members of respectable society’.51 This Arendt came to realize very poignantly during the trial of the former SS officer Adolf Eichmann in Jerusalem, in 1961, on which she reported for the New Yorker.52 The way Eichmann explained his assistance in the systematic deportation and murder of the Jews gave her an insight not unlike Augustine’s notion that evil has no positive substance.53 What Arendt realized

45

46

47

48

49

50 51 52 53

Idem, ‘Some Questions of Moral Philosophy’, in Responsibility and Judgment (ed. Jerome Kohn; New York: Schocken, 2003), pp. 49–146 (50). Cf. Idem, Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil (Middlesex: Penguin, 1994), pp. 42, 92, 135–8. And it was hardly reassuring, Arendt observes, that after the collapse of Nazism this change was just as easily reversed again. Arendt, ‘Moral Philosophy’, pp. 54–5. It is in the light of perplexities such as these, rather than the notion of greatness as the criterion of politics (in The Human Condition), that Arendt’s reserve regarding morality must be understood; pace George Kateb, ‘Political Action: Its Nature and Advantages’, in The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt (ed. Dana Villa; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 130–48 (139–44). Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison (London: SCM, 1971), p. 4. The memorandum is largely based on the beginning of ‘Ethics as Formation’, written in 1940 as a chapter of Ethics. For Bonhoeffer the only alternative to reliance on moral principles is ‘obedient and responsible action’. Ibid., p. 5. See also Chapter 7, Section II. Arendt, ‘Personal Responsibility’, p. 23. Ibid., pp. 42–3. In 1963 the articles were published as Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. Augustine observes in De Civitate Dei XI 9 that ‘evil is not a positive substance’. Augustine, City of God (trans. Henry Bettenson; London: Penguin Books, 1984), p. 440.

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was that Eichmann, far from being a monster or sadist, simply had never thought about what he did. That was the ‘banality’ of his evil, as she put it.54 What seems ‘radical’ turned out to have no roots at all. In branding Eichmann’s evil ‘banal’, Arendt does not mean to belittle it.55 On the contrary, she points out that rootless evil, exactly because it has no ‘root’ (radix), ‘can go to unthinkable extremes and sweep over the whole world.’56 Banal thoughtlessness, then, rather than some primordial force, underlies the systemic evil witnessed during the 1930s and 1940s, and it is precisely in response to such thoughtlessness that Arendt develops her account of judgement. Customs and established moral principles are no match for profound evil, Arendt holds. They can be obeyed blindly, without any thought about what one is actually doing. If evil is rooted in thoughtlessness, then what is needed in responding to it is more than mere adherence to moral codes; what is needed, above anything else, is a return to thought. As Arendt explains in her essay ‘Thinking and Moral Considerations’ (1971),57 the moral significance of thought is primarily negative: instead of providing concrete answers as to how one should act, thought interrupts activity: someone who thinks ‘steps back’ from his activity and reflects on it. Thought also interrupts our application of moral principles. If we stop our activity in order to think, what we are doing is returning to the process of thinking of which these principles are the solidified results of our thinking and reasoning – or as Arendt puts it, ‘frozen’ thoughts. To think is to ‘defrost’ these principles: to assess, once again, their validity.58 To think is to withdraw from our immediate practical involvements (including the moral ‘tools’ for action) and become aware, first of all, of ourselves. Self-consciousness lies at the heart of thought’s moral significance: for to become aware of oneself, Arendt explains (with reference to Socrates), is to realize that one has to live with oneself, including one’s actions: ‘you can remain the friend of a sufferer [of evil]; who would want to be the friend of and have to live together with a murderer?’59 Self-consciousness, then, leads to conscience, confronting the agent with his acts and himself. 54 55

56 57

58 59

Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem, pp. 49, 252, 287–8. Cf. Idem, ‘Personal Responsibility’, p. 35. On the term ‘banality’, and the confusion caused by Arendt’s use of it, see Seyla Benhabib, ‘Arendt’s Eichmann in Jerusalem’, in The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt (ed. Dana Villa; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 65–85 (74–6). Arendt, ‘Moral Philosophy’, p. 95. Idem, ‘Thinking and Moral Considerations’, in Responsibility and Judgment (ed. Jerome Kohn; New York: Schocken, 2003), pp. 159–89. For a more detailed discussion of similar themes, see Part One of The Life of the Mind, also published in 1971. Ibid., p. 173. Ibid., p. 185.

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Thus the moral significance of thought is primarily negative: we are not so much told what to do as prompted to refrain from acting. This interrupting role of thought is nevertheless highly significant. Arendt observes what happens in the absence of thought: He who does not know the intercourse between me and myself (in which we examine what we say and what we do) will not mind contradicting himself, and this means he will never be either able or willing to give account of what he says or does; nor will he mind committing any crime, since he can be sure that it will be forgotten the next moment.60

The fact that Arendt uses the third person already suggests that for her thinking is not a strictly private affair, as if important for the moral sanity of the thinking subject. Someone who is capable of thought will recognize a failure of thought in others as well. Insofar as I continue to think I not only prevent myself from sleepwalking into evil, but also allow myself to judge others. Arendt highlights this connection between thought and judgement towards the end of the essay. Just as consciousness (actualized by thought) generates the ‘by-product’ of conscience, she explains, thinking generates the ‘by-product’ of judgement. Thinking and judging are not the same: the former ‘deals with invisibles, with representations of things that are absent, whereas judging always concerns particulars and things close at hand’.61 Yet both thought and judgement function independently of rules: thought questions the validity of concepts, whereas judgement proceeds to appreciate particulars in relative independence from such concepts. The destabilizing effect of thinking ‘has a liberating effect on . . . the faculty of judgment’.62 Thus, whereas judgement begins in thought, leading us to withdraw from the world and review the solidified concepts with which we act in the world, judgement nevertheless brings the liberating effect of thought to bear upon the world. Thus, ‘judging, the by-product of the liberating effect of thinking, realizes thinking, makes it manifest in the world of appearances’. Calling into question our day-to-day standards of judgement, thought nonetheless equips us ‘to tell right from wrong, beautiful from ugly’.63 Although not incompatible with O’Donovan’s account of judgement, Arendt’s account of the operation of judgement, and its relation to both evil and thinking, 60

61 62 63

Ibid., p. 187. Arendt points out that the ability or inability to think has nothing to do with intelligence; Idem, ‘Thinking’, p. 187. Similarly, Bonhoeffer considers ‘folly’ (Dummheit) a ‘moral rather than an intellectual defect’. Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers, pp. 8–9. Arendt, ‘Thinking’, p. 189. Ibid., p. 188. Ibid., p. 189.

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is certainly quite different in emphasis. First of all, in contrast to O’Donovan’s analysis, Arendt does not (yet) highlight the political context and application of judgement – even though one can begin to see how she might elaborate on them. Indeed, Arendt distinguishes more strongly than O’Donovan between judgement and moral reasoning. She not only emphasizes more strongly the reflective and retrospective character of judgement, but shows how judgement cuts a new ‘path’ through the solidified concepts of our moral reasoning. O’Donovan, however, would maintain that judgement is a conclusion to moral reasoning, exercised with the practical interest of restoring and re-establishing the integrity of society. Nevertheless, it would be difficult for Arendt to deny that her concern for judgement is free from any practical considerations whatsoever. In the political context of the 1930s and 1940s, which forms the background of Arendt’s reflections on the subject, judgement is vital because it alone can break the spell of collective thoughtlessness. That is, only judgement (spurred on by thought) can make perpetrators see themselves once more as responsible agents, and thereby create space for free, genuinely human interaction – ‘establish a new public context’, as O’Donovan would put it.64 Thus it might be more precise to say that Arendt and O’Donovan emphasize complementary aspects of judgement. Arendt repeatedly stresses the fact that judgement does not operate by subsuming particulars under universals – that is, by way of mere logic and deductive reasoning. Underlying O’Donovan’s account of judgement, by contrast, is the understanding that we cannot judge in a conceptual vacuum. Nevertheless, O’Donovan aligns himself with Arendt when he points out that judgement involves an act of recognition, which always involves a ‘leap’ from the generic to the particular.65 In other words, while moral (and political) reasoning cannot operate without moral concepts, it is only through an act of recognition that these concepts can inform judgement. Arendt may not use the language of recognition, yet the fact that she considers thought as indispensable for judgement (rather than the logic of moral reasoning) can be seen as her way of acknowledging the point made by O’Donovan. Nevertheless, a difference in emphasis remains between O’Donovan  and Arendt. Given her personal experience of how moral reasoning can be 64 65

O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 7. Even the relatively mundane task of recognizing a fellow-creature is ‘one of the most mysterious acts there is’, O’Donovan writes. ‘I either recognize this slithery floppy object as a fish, or I do not; even if I can be taught to recognize a fish by looking for gills, scales, and fins, I either recognize this orifice as a gill, those membranes as scales, that limb as a fin, or I do not.’ Ibid., p. 18.

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‘hijacked’ by evil and indeed thoughtlessness, Arendt is keener than O’Donovan to highlight the interruptive character of judgement. Especially in political circumstances such as witnessed in the 1930s and 1940s, this means for her that judgement consists above of all in a stance, or attitude, of critical distance from and even defiance of society and its political institutions. This understanding of judgement is important for the purpose of this study, as it suggests an additional sense in which private citizens might find themselves in a position of judgement; in addition, that is, to the kind of judicial intervention highlighted by O’Donovan. In fact, Arendt’s account of judgement (i.e., exercised in the face of thoughtlessness) adds a new sub-category to O’Donovan’s principle of iudicium cessans. Now the challenge facing individual citizens is how to respond to a failure of judgement that affects society as whole. Now the question is what it means to exercise judgement in the context of a systemic failure of judgement. This question will be considered in the remainder of this chapter, not just with a view to individual citizens, but especially with regard to friendship. The particular emphasis will lie on the communal character of judgement that Arendt, drawing on Kant, regards as indispensable for judgement exercised in political contexts. This will lead to further suggestions concerning the role of friendship.

III  Judging together Judgement cannot be reduced to the application of logic, subsuming particular situations under generic (moral) concepts. In order to understand how judge­ ment does function, Arendt turns to Kant’s account of aesthetic judgement in the first part of his Critique of Judgement. Arendt’s engagement with Kant will provide an initial sense of the extent to which judgement might also be a communal practice – and particularly so in the context of friendship.

Kantian aesthetics Kant’s subject matter in the first part of his Critique is aesthetic judgement, not political judgement. Kant is interested in how we judge in matters of taste. This seems hardly appropriate in the context of the political situation in Europe in the 1930s and 1940s: surely, judging Eichmann is not a matter of taste? Yet Arendt believes that Kant’s project is useful, if only because his understanding of aesthetic

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judgement is premised on the recognition that for the exercise of judgement generic concepts (rules and principles) are not sufficient. As Kant puts it, one cannot establish that something is beautiful by way of a logical syllogism.66 Arendt refers to Kant’s theory of judgement in various passages scattered throughout her writings. One piece that is particularly relevant is her essay ‘The Crisis in Culture’ (1960).67 There she alludes, first of all, to Kant’s insistence that aesthetic judgement requires the ‘attitude of disinterested joy’68 on the part of the critic. In order to judge a piece of art, one needs to keep a certain distance from it: just as a thinker withdraws from being immersed in action, a critic seeks to divest himself of immediate interests in the object and appreciate its objective quality. This posture is what makes him a critic, as distinguished from the artist immersed in the creative process. In fact, even the artist himself must step back from time to time during that process in order to be able to evaluate, or indeed judge, what he has made.69 Arendt’s immediate reason to take an interest in this attitude of disinter­ estedness is her concern for the fate of culture and art in modern society, which tends to reduce art and all artefacts to mere commodities to be traded and consumed.70 For Arendt, however, this is ultimately a political matter. For only a world of durable objects can sustain a public realm. Only a world that is not entirely carved up for private use can sustain a genuinely common space: a space that allows not only for labour and work, but also for action.71 In other words, to see the world from the stance Kant recommends is to be committed to sustaining a public realm. For Kant, to take the distance required for judgement means to transcend the immediate sensations of like and dislike, pleasure and displeasure, approval and disapproval. In judgement one rather reflects on such sensations: is my pleasure or displeasure in this painting just a fleeting sensation, or is it more than that? How does it compare with less momentary, less personal standards of beauty? It is in this moment of reflection that we begin to judge, or at least prepare the ground for judgement. Yet the problem is, of course, that just as concepts are not 66

67

68 69 70 71

Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgement, Section 34. For a systematic summary of Kant’s theory of judgement, see Ronald Beiner, Political Judgment (London: Methuen, 1983), pp. 31–71. Hannah Arendt, ‘The Crisis in Culture: Its Social and Its Political Significance’, in Between Past and Future (Middlesex: Penguin Books, 2006), pp. 194–222. See also Idem, ‘Truth and Politics’, in Between Past and Future, 237; Idem, ‘Moral Philosophy’, pp. 137–46. In Chapter 5 (Section III) more attention will be paid to Arendt’s last and most extensive discussion of judgement in her 1970 lectures on Kant’s political philosophy. Arendt, ‘Crisis in Culture’, p. 207. Ibid., pp. 208–16. Ibid., pp. 194–208. Concerning ‘world’ and its relation to ‘work’, see Chapter 3, Section II. See Chapter 3, Section II.

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sufficient for judgement, there are no clear-cut standards of beauty: de gustibus non est disputandum, one cannot argue about matters of taste. But what prevents our judgements from being just idiosyncratic and arbitrary? How do we reflect on our immediate sensations if there are no universal aesthetic standards ready to hand? For Kant the answer lies in the faculty of imagination, or ‘enlarged mentality’: the faculty enabling us to distance ourselves from our immediate interests in the object we seek to evaluate. Yet the imaginative moment merely facilitates a second and more important operation: once we have distanced ourselves we are able to test our sensations against the standard of what he calls ‘universal communicability’ (Sections 39–40).72 The key question here is whether I can communicate my pleasure or dislike to the wider public, in the hope that they will concur with the opinions of other critics. In order to judge, then, I must not only step back but also learn to see through the eyes of others. This second exercise Kant identifies with a second faculty, which he calls sensus communis, ‘common sense’ (Section 40). Through imagination we reflect on our sensations; common sense allows us to submit our sensations to public standards of taste, and thereby have a ‘forum’ for our judgements. According to Kant, the maxim of judgement is the maxim of ‘enlarged thought’: ‘to put ourselves in thought in the place of everyone else’ (Section 40). Kant here does not envisage a surrendering to the tastes of the masses. The judging ‘public’ he has in mind is certainly not identical to the opinions that just any society happens to entertain; it is rather an ideal perspective that, although publicly oriented, functions as a criterion of any concrete opinions aired by the public. We ‘enlarge’ our minds by ‘comparing our judgment with the possible rather than the actual judgments of others’ (Section 40). Judgement, therefore, remains our personal responsibility; nobody can do it for us. According to Kant, then, we must judge for ourselves just as we must think for ourselves.73 If in judgement we are to put ourselves ‘in the place of everyone else,’ this is because ‘we are seeking a judgment that is to serve as a universal rule’ (Section 40) – not just to rely on the tastes of others. Already in The Human Condition Arendt implicitly draws on Kant’s account of common sense. Common sense, she explains there, is the sense with which we experience our environment as ‘world’, in its quality of being ‘common to us all’.74 Common sense is not a sixth sense, in addition to our five physical senses, 72

73

74

Cf. the title of Section 39: ‘Of the communicability of a sensation.’ See Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment (trans. J. H. Bernard; Dover Philosophical Classics, Mineola, NY: Dover, 2005), p. 100. Cf. Kant, ‘What is Enlightenment?’, p. 1784. On Jesus’ advice to ‘judge for yourselves’ (Lk. 12.57), see Chapter 5, Section III. Arendt, The Human Condition, p. 208.

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but one of a quite different order. In fact, ‘it is the one sense that fits into reality as a whole our five strictly individual senses and the strictly particular data they perceive’.75 In other words, common sense involves awareness that the sensations received by the other senses are strictly personal sensations, that they represent only one perspective on the world. To have common sense is to be aware of the irreducible ‘commonness’ of the world, and of the plurality constitutive of the public realm in it. Without this sense, we would be unable to recognize each other as ‘other’, let alone act together. While in The Human Condition Arendt just speaks of common sense, in later works she follows Kant in relating this faculty to judgement. This development perhaps signals a subtle shift in emphasis. The term ‘common sense’ itself might suggest a sense that, like hearing or seeing, operates regardless of whether we choose to use it or not. Yet Kant’s common sense is rather a moment in the exercise of judgement, which is an act. The emphasis thus shifts towards the intentional activation and application of common sense through judgement.76 Understood as a dimension of judgement, then, common sense is not a natural function but a task we must accept. And thus we can also fail to put ourselves in the position of others, staying with our private interests instead.

Political aesthetics It should be clearer now why Arendt thinks Kant’s account of aesthetic judgement is useful to her own exploration of political judgement. Kant presents the tastes of the public as a standard for judgement. A public is different from a collective in that it is rooted in plurality – which, according to Arendt, is the key condition of political life.77 While judgement flows from reflection – a moment of retreat – it must nonetheless be exercised in the presence of others. Arendt emphasizes, even more than Kant, the need for an actual rather than just an imagined public forum: to judge is not to ‘count noses’,78 seeking to deduce an average from the totality of views held in society. Yet in ‘The Crisis of Culture’ Arendt writes that 75 76

77 78

Ibid. Cf. Idem, ‘Crisis in Culture’, p. 218. Idem, ‘Moral Philosophy’, p. 139. Cf. Arendt’s description of common sense as ‘the mother of judgment’ in Idem, ‘Moral Philosophy’, p. 141. Idem, The Human Condition, p. 7. Idem, ‘Moral Philosophy’, p. 141. Cf. Kant, Critique of Judgement, Section 31. Elsewhere Arendt explains the difference by distinguishing enlarged mentality (which Kant deems necessary for judgement) from empathy – the presumption to know ‘what actually goes on in the mind of all others’. Arendt, Lectures on Kant, p. 43. For a critique of Arendt’s sharp contrast between empathy and enlarged thinking, see George Kateb, ‘The Judgment of Arendt’, in Patriotism and Other Mistakes (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), pp. 150–68 (161–5).

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enlarged thinking ‘cannot function in strict isolation or solitude; it needs the presence of others “in whose place” it must think, whose perspectives it must take into consideration, and without whom it never has the opportunity to operate at all’.79 It may be the task of each citizen to ‘think in the place of everyone else’, yet this does not mean that each can therefore simply rely on his own imaginative powers and common sense. Here Arendt seems to add a qualification to Kant’s account: the presence of others remains a necessary condition for the validity of my judgement. This applies ‘even when I am quite alone in making up my mind,’80 and when all I can do, therefore, is anticipate the consent of others. In judging, what I must represent through the use of imagination is the perspectives of nonimaginary others. The forum of judgement is the very real public realm of society. Judgement and thought may be similar in that both require a certain distancing from immediate practical involvements. Yet they achieve such distance in radically different ways: in thought it is achieved through introspection, whereas in judgement it is achieved precisely by reaching out to fellow-citizens. Judgement, then, requires the presence of others as well as a faithful representation of their perspectives: these are complementary conditions for judgement.81 Thus in judging we must actively seek out the viewpoints of others and ‘woo’ their consent, as Arendt puts it.82 To judge is to anticipate agreement – to invite others to share one’s judgements while allowing these to be challenged by their judgements. Arendt writes: The power of judgment rests on a potential agreement with others, and the thinking process which is active in judging something is not, like the thought process of pure reasoning, a dialogue between me and myself, but finds itself always and primarily, even if I am quite alone in making up my mind, in an anticipated communication with others with whom I know I must finally come to some agreement.83

The veracity of judgement, then, depends on its persuasive power: its potential to elicit agreement and thus to become common judgement.84 This is why judgement 79 80 81 82

83 84

Arendt, ‘Crisis in Culture’, p. 217. Ibid. Pace Kateb, ‘The Judgment of Arendt’, p. 161. Arendt, ‘Crisis in Culture’, p. 219. Cf. Kant, Critique of Judgement, Section 19. See also Hannah Arendt, ‘Truth and Politics’, in Between Past and Future (Middlesex: Penguin Books, 2006), pp. 223– 59 (237). Idem, ‘Crisis in Culture’, p. 217. Judgements are never purely theoretical, but always imply some ‘form of life’; cf. Bernd Wannenwetsch, Political Worship: Ethics for Christian Citizens (Oxford Studies in Theological Ethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 32–40.

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cannot be left to a single leader, or even to a class of professional politicians; nor can it be imposed on the populace. What is at stake in politics, Arendt writes, is ‘judgment and decision . . . the judicious exchange of opinion about the sphere of public life and the common world’ (emphasis added).85 Were judgement not exercised discursively, Arendt suggests, it would no longer be judgement.

Judgement and friendship Arendt’s insight that judgement requires the presence and participation of others has interesting implications for friendship. Thus far, the discussion of Arendt and O’Donovan has yielded the insights that judgement is a key political act, if not the political act; that although the task of judgement is normally mediated by political office, in emergencies it can fall upon private citizens; and, finally, that in cases where the emergency is itself of a political nature (as in Nazi Germany) judgement consists primarily in defiance of the failure of judgement corrupting an entire society. Arendt’s account of judgement exercised through common sense allows for a further suggestion: if to judge is to judge with others, then emergency judgement, too, even if expressed primarily as defiance of society at large, might still require the presence of others – or indeed friends. Chapter 3 highlighted that friendship is a crucial context for common action: friendship is defined less by similarity than by shared activity, particularly the friends’ delight in acting with and ‘through’ each other.86 Now, if friends typically seek to depend on each other in their activities, then one might expect the same to be true about their judgements. In matters of judgement we seek agreement from our companions: they make us see things from their point of view, challenging us to reconsider our judgements when they turn out to be different from theirs, and vice versa. Perhaps nowhere less than in friendship are we personally responsible for our judgements, and yet nowhere more than in friendship do shared judgements genuinely become our own.87 Perhaps, then, friendship is an exemplary forum for Arendt’s ‘judicious exchange of opinion’, the practice defining political agency. Arendt does not explicitly make this suggestion – yet a student of hers does. In Political Judgment (1983), Ronald Beiner puts it as follows: ‘To judge is to judge-with, to judge-with

85 86 87

Arendt, ‘Crisis in Culture’, pp. 219–20. Chapter 3, Section I. See Chapter 3, Sections I–II.

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is to be a friend. To judge well is a staple of politics. The inference is that friendship is quintessentially political.’88 Beiner’s conclusion goes even further than the above suggestion: not only is friendship a forum for good judgement, but good judgement itself is a mark of friendship, which suggests that friendship is ‘quintessentially political’. One might ask whether Beiner is justified in applying Arendt’s account of judgement to friendship. Isn’t friendship too intimate to serve as a ‘forum’ of judgement? The question echoes the suggestion, considered previously, that friendly collaboration and discourse are of a different order than interaction in the public realm. Yet friendship, we saw, is not necessarily characterized by intimacy. Conversely, the public realm is not primarily a spatial concept, determined simply by the quantity of people involved, but one that suggests a particular perspective. It is in line with this emphasis that Kant thinks one can achieve a public perspective in one’s judgements even when alone. This is an exaggeration, of course; as Arendt points out, while judgement is an individual responsibility, we do need the presence of others. Yet precisely for that reason it seems fair to suggest that friendship is a suitable context for the task of judgement – or at least a context in which to learn it.

The company of judgement This suggestion is supported by Arendt’s own observations on judgement, in the final lecture of a series called ‘Some Questions of Moral Philosophy’ (1965–6).89 Here she discusses the substance or content of judgement: what do we actually pronounce in our judgements? Kant’s basic answer to this question, Arendt explains, is that in judging we recognize and name something of universal validity in the particular, since we can only tell right from wrong (or indeed beautiful from ugly) in relation to concrete phenomena. In terms of the standards of judgement, Arendt explains, this doesn’t mean that the content of our judgements cannot at all be generalized – as if every time we judge we would have to start from a blank sheet. Instead, it means that we have nothing else to build on than concrete examples. In judging particulars we can only refer to other particulars: exemplary persons, deeds or objects that speak 88

89

Beiner, Political Judgment, p. 82. Beiner draws not only on Arendt’s account of judgement but also on Aristotle’s discussion of jrόnhsiV (prudence) in NE VI 8–13, where he shows that Aristotle describes gnώmh, ‘judgement’, with reference to suggnώmh, which literally means ‘judgement-with’. See Ibid., pp. 72–9. Arendt, ‘Moral Philosophy’.

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to us in a particularly powerful manner.90 Especially persons, ‘dead or alive, real or fictitious’,91 can serve as powerful examples. In judging certain acts we pronounce to what extent they are ‘like’ the deeds of, say, Socrates, Achilles or Macbeth. Given the importance of these personal examples, Arendt holds, judgement has everything to do with ‘the question of whom we wish to be together with’. Indeed, ‘our decisions about right and wrong will depend upon our choice of company, of those with whom we wish to spend our lives’.92 The kind of company she has in mind is not merely with fictional figures: ‘In the unlikely case that someone should come and tell us that he would prefer Bluebeard for company, and hence take him as an example, the only thing we could do is to make sure he never comes near us.’93 In other words, in our judgements we keep company with some while staying away from others. In her essay ‘Thinking and Moral Considerations’, Arendt explained the moral significance of thinking with reference to whom one would not wish to live with (Section II). Here, however, judgement is described as involving a positive choice too judge is to choose whom one would wish to live with. Moreover, by explaining judgement in terms of choosing company, Arendt mitigates the highly formal character of Kant’s understanding of judgement, whereby judgement always transcends any actual public or community. In fact, by speaking of ‘company’ Arendt is entering the sphere of friendship rather closely. ‘To judge is to judgewith, to judge-with is to be a friend.’94 This statement by Beiner, referred to earlier, captures the implication of Arendt’s reflections rather well. But what kind of friendship is this company of judgement? Indeed, doesn’t the notion of judging as a form of choosing company trivialize judgement – as if judgement is about joining like-minded people? However, as Arendt suggests in her account of the Eichmann trial, there are times when only very few are able to judge. And those few are likely to recognize each other as friends: to judge is to choose company, and to choose company is to judge. The crucial choice in Arendt’s Bluebeard example is not between the company of those who prefer Bluebeard, and those who prefer others; as Arendt points out, it is ‘unlikely’ that anyone would prefer Bluebeard. The real alternative is between those who judge (and thereby choose company), and those who fail to do so: ‘the likelihood that someone would come and tell us that he does not mind and that any company 90

91 92 93 94

Ibid., p. 144. Arendt refers here to Kant’s notion of ‘exemplary validity’, in Critique of Judgement, Section 22. Ibid., p. 146. Ibid., pp. 145–6. Ibid., p. 146. Cf. Beiner, Political Judgment, pp. 138–44.

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will be good enough for him is . . . by far greater’.95 Thus, in translating Arendt’s notion of judicious company in terms of friendship, friendship must not be understood as an association among other associations, each based on its own parochial preferences. What makes the judgements of a particular circle of friends stand out is not so much these friends’ specific (shared) preferences, as a failure to judge in their social environment. The contrast here is not between one friendship and another, but between judicious company and company without judgement. In this respect, at least, judgement is like thought: what matters is not so much the exact ‘content’ of judgement as the fact whether judgement is exercised at all.

Friends in dark times Arendt illustrates the political implications of these insights in her essay ‘On Humanity in Dark Times’ (1960),96 which focuses on the ‘dark’ days of Nazism. Arendt’s essay will help us re-examine in subsequent chapters the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer – a story shaped to a large extent by the same historical circumstances. It is also significant to note that in this essay Arendt speaks explicitly about friendship (even though she does not on this occasion mention judgement). The ‘darkness’ of Nazi Germany, Arendt explains, was political in that it consisted in an eclipse of the public realm. In fact, what was eclipsed was not just public discourse and debate, but the very ‘world’ itself – in its quality of being intrinsically common, constituted by human plurality.97 Yet in this essay Arendt is particularly interested in the various responses that such darkness might provoke. ‘[I]f things turn out well,’ Arendt observes, ‘a special kind of humanity develops’.98 This special type of humanity, she suggests (following Lessing), is the humanity of friendship: in dark times, friendship is ‘the central phenomenon in which alone true humanity can prove itself ’. And to recognize friendship in this quality, Arendt argues, is to recognize its ‘political relevance’. She illustrates this political relevance by contrasting friendship with other, less fortunate attempts to preserve humanity amid the darkness – responses which she personally witnessed within the Jewish community, suffering under 95 96

97

98

Arendt, ‘Moral Philosophy’, p. 146. Hannah Arendt, ‘On Humanity in Dark Times: Thoughts about Lessing’, in Men in Dark Times (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1968), pp. 3–31. Cf. also Beiner, Political Judgment, pp. 120–5. Arendt, ‘Humanity in Dark Times’, pp. 5–11. Cf. Idem, The Human Condition, pp. 7–8. See also Chapter 3, Section II. Idem, ‘Humanity in Dark Times’, p. 12.

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Nazi terror. In fact, she claims that the darkness was not only the result of the violence perpetrated by the Nazis, but was also made worse by the response from their victims.99 During the early days of Nazi terror, the obvious thing to do, for the Jews and other targeted minorities, was to withdraw from public life. Stripped from public office, rights and citizenship, they could only fall back  on  the support offered by their ethnic ties – on the solidarity of ‘fraternity’, as Arendt puts it.100 While not denying the strength offered by these ties, Arendt points out that such strength was anything but empowering, echoing her distinction between ‘strength’ (physical) and ‘power’ (political) in The Human Condition. In retreating from the world, then, the Jews gave up the possibility to act – in the sense of engaging in and contributing to public life. The humanity of their ethnic solidarity was a ‘worldless’ humanity, the effectiveness of which was inversely related to the extent they had retreated from public life: they drew support from the ‘warmth’ that is ‘the pariahs’ substitute for light’.101 Arendt’s concern is not, of course, to condemn such withdrawal from public life. Nor does she suggest that instead of re-affirming their common ethnicity, the Jews should have insisted on some sort of universal humanity that transcends all ethnic boundaries.102 The only real alternative, she holds, was friendship: a relationship not dependent on ethnic ties, or on a humanist ideal, but rather one that acknowledges and welcomes difference. Thus there were friendships between Jews and Germans (such as between Arendt herself and her future husband103) that withstood the terror unleashed by the Nazi State. If such friends had sought to justify their relationship with reference to a ‘higher’ form of humanity, transcending their ethnic differences, then they would have accepted the terms of Nazi ideology, thereby colluding with its practices: ‘they would not have been resisting the world as it was’.104 The kind of friendship Arendt has in mind is one that expresses ‘a humanness that has not lost the solid ground of reality, a humanness in the midst of the reality of persecution’. The friends she has in mind are those who, in keeping with this humanness, could say together: ‘A German and a Jew, and friends.’ And On the controversy caused by Arendt’s articles on Eichmann, and in particular her assessment of the role played by the European Jewish councils during the Holocaust, see Young-Bruehl, Hannah Arendt, pp. 347–62. 100 On friendship and fraternity, see also Jacques Derrida, The Politics of Friendship (trans. George Collins; London: Verso, 2005). 101 Arendt, ‘Humanity in Dark Times’, p. 16. 102 Ibid. 103 See Young-Bruehl, Hannah Arendt, p. 152. 104 Arendt, ‘Humanity in Dark Times’, p. 23.   99

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whenever that happened, Arendt writes, ‘a bit of humanness in a world become inhuman had been achieved’. Such friendships were remarkable, then, in that they affirmed the plurality that underlies any public realm, and that was eclipsed, in a most dramatic way, as a result of State-organized terror. Yet, as noted earlier, the crucial contrast here is not between the few ‘mixed’ friendships on the one hand, and the prime agents of terror on the other. The contrast is rather between these few friendships, and the many who have quietly given up on the plurality still affirmed in those few friendships. The latter include not only most Jews (or other persecuted minorities), retreating in fellowship based on similarity, but also the majority of German citizens in general, accepting and accommodating themselves to the gradual de-humanizing of society. Under these circumstances, then, to say and live out together the phrase, ‘A German and a Jew, and friends,’ was nothing less than an act of political defiance. Friendship itself had become a political practice. Developing this insight, one might go one step further and describe this defiance in terms of judgement. First of all, under the circumstances described, any deliberate embrace of plurality in friendship involved an activation of common sense – just as the perverting of justice and the undermining of civil society (most obviously through the elimination of the Jews) amounted to a decline in common sense.105 For Jews and Germans to persist in their friendships meant to resist any form of civility based on similarity or like-mindedness alone. Thus their ‘mixed’ friendships were themselves expressions of common sense. Indeed, for these friends to remain faithful to each other on a day-to-day basis was nothing less than an act of judgement – the daily activation and application of the common sense expressed in their relationship.106 Moreover, if Arendt is right in describing judgement in terms of choosing ‘company’, then in giving her description of friendship ‘in dark times’ she has in fact provided an example of what this ‘company’ of judgement might look like in the most extreme of political crises. Her case – that of friendship between a German and a Jew – powerfully illustrates how under such circumstances judgement is expressed not primarily in explicit pronouncements, but first and foremost in the faithfulness that is friendship. Here friendship is not merely a result of judging, but rather itself an act of judgement: these friends exercised judgement precisely by not abandoning each other’s company. 105 106

Cf. Idem, The Human Condition, p. 209. On plurality as a concern in judgement, see Jerome Kohn, ‘Freedom: the priority of the political’, in The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt (ed. Dana Villa; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 113–29 (127).

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Thus, the contrast between friendship and terror in ‘Humanity in Dark Times’ corresponds with the contrast in ‘Some Questions of Moral Philosophy’ between the company of judgement, and the failure to judge in political society as a whole. The ‘darkness’ described by Arendt consists in passive thoughtlessness and loss of common sense. It is in the sharp contrast with friendships defying the prevailing regime of terror that such passivity is exposed as a failure of judgement. One might even go as far as saying that such passivity is judged by the judicious faithfulness of friends.

Friendship and judgement I have considered different types of ‘failing judgement’ (iudicium cessans) in the work of O’Donovan and Arendt. Furthermore, I argued in Section II that each of these point to different but not incompatible ways in which individual citizens might intervene in situations of failed judgement. O’Donovan explains how individual citizens might do so (provisionally) by taking on themselves the task normally carried out by the political authorities. Arendt, we saw, focuses on more widespread and profound cases of failed judgement. In these cases, the judgement exercised by individual citizens consists in defiance of widespread thoughtlessness, and hence failure of judgement. Arendt’s account of friendship in ‘dark times’, discussed in this section, gives a powerful example of such defiance: against the backdrop of a widespread failure to judge, friendship itself becomes an act of judgement. However, the conclusion to this section is not merely that sometimes those individual citizens accepting the political task of judgement happen to be friends. The conclusion is above all that friendship is a very appropriate context for such emergency judgement: first of all, because the exercise of judgement always requires the company of others; and secondly, because extreme socio-political circumstances may mean that friendship is the only means of expressing judgement. Whether and how friendship might also be a context for emergency judgement of the less dramatic type (highlighted by O’Donovan), is a question to be answered in the next chapter – which will revisit the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer in the light of the themes discussed above.

5

Friends Judging in Times of Crisis

This chapter is devoted to a more in-depth discussion of specific moments in the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer. Following the discussion in the previous two chapters, the aim is now to establish whether their friendly collaboration also involved common judgement in a politically significant sense. The focus will be specifically on the friends’ secret meeting at Sigtuna in 1942: Did their deliberations involve a moment of ‘emergency judgement’, in either of the two senses defined in the previous chapter; and if so, what does that imply for the political nature of their friendship? After some reflections on whether their friendship expressed such emergency judgement, both generally and with regard to the 1942 Sigtuna meeting (Section I), the discussion will focus particularly on Bonhoeffer’s pivotal comment on repentance during that same meeting (Section II). This will in turn inform a more refined account of the way in which Bell and Bonhoeffer exercised judgement during that meeting: one that acknowledges the extent to which they deviated from Arendt’s (late) ideal of judgement, and practised instead the obedience that marks the life of the church (Section III).

I  In the company of judgement While in this chapter the focus shifts back to the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer, it is worth noting that this does not involve a shift away from Arendt’s reflections on judgement (as discussed in the previous chapter), for much of these reflections are shaped by the same crisis that also determined the friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer: the ‘dark times’ of Nazi terror.1 Indeed, the year 1933 is crucial in Arendt’s life story as well as the shared story of Bell and Bonhoeffer. It is the year of Hitler’s rise to the German chancellorship, which marked the beginning of the State-organized persecution of the Jews, and prompted Arendt to flee 1

See Chapter 4, Section III.

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Germany for Paris.2 This occurred in the same year that Bell and Bonhoeffer met for the first time, at the ecumenical conference in Novi Sad. That meeting was overshadowed by conflicts among German delegates over attempts by the pro-Nazi ‘German Christians’ to reorganize the German evangelical churches into a single National Church (Reichskirche).3 After the capitulation of the French army in 1940 Arendt managed to escape to New York, and would live in the United States for the rest of her life.4 As for Bonhoeffer, he had moved to New York already in 1939, yet after much soulsearching decided to return to Germany that same year. Bonhoeffer returned to a society increasingly terrorized by the Nazi State. Indeed, by this time the German church struggle, which had occupied him during much of the 1930s, had moved into the background, if only because the State had succeeded in paralysing the Confessing Church movement and closing down its illegal seminaries. No longer able to preach or teach, Bonhoeffer now got involved in the secret resistance movement, operating as a double spy in his position at the Military Intelligence, using his contacts within the ecumenical network to rally support abroad for the resistance in Germany. In all of this his friendship with Bell remained crucial, despite the fact they were able to see each other only one more time after their meeting in 1939.5

Friendship as judgement? Revisiting Bell and Bonhoeffer’s continuing friendship in the light of the explorations in the previous chapter, it might be tempting to interpret their friendship in the same way in which Arendt would later characterize friendships between Jews and non-Jews in Nazi Germany – that is, friendship as defiance of the ‘failure of judgement’ in the terror engulfing German society.6 In the case of Bell and Bonhoeffer, of course, the crucial boundaries that are being bridged are not so much ethnic as national. Yet there is a similar defiance, this time expressed in the friend’s loyalty, in the face of increasing hostility and war between their respective countries. At a time when national allegiance was the 2

3 4 5 6

Arendt was arrested and briefly detained by the Secret Police (Gestapo) for collecting information on the anti-Jewish measures, to be presented at the 18th Zionist congress in Prague, September 1933. See Elisabeth Young-Bruehl, Hannah Arendt: For Love of the World (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982), pp. 102–10. See Chapter 2, Section II. Young-Bruehl, Hannah Arendt, pp. 152–9. See Chapter 2, Section II. See Chapter 4, Section III.

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norm, here were two people able to say (adapting Arendt’s phrase): ‘A German and an Englishman, and friends.’7 Nevertheless, the meaning and significance of their loyalty is not of the same order as that which Arendt discusses – nor could it be. Not even Bonhoeffer was subject to the worst of Nazi terror that German Jews like Arendt automatically were. Both Bell and Bonhoeffer may have faced the prospect of paying a high price for what many would have deemed their ‘unpatriotic’ friendship – and indeed Bonhoeffer did pay the ultimate price for his involvement in the resistance. Yet their friendship did not intrinsically embody political defiance; they could have limited themselves to exchanging their controversial views and judgements in private, thus staying out of trouble. By contrast, any friendship between Jewish and non-Jewish German was in itself already a provocation to the Nazi regime. As pointed out in the previous chapter, it inevitably expressed defiance of the Nazi terror, and indeed judgement on the ‘failure’ of judgement it embodied.8 This did not apply, of course, to friendships such as the one between Bell and Bonhoeffer. Bell and Bonhoeffer did, however, face a ‘failure’ of judgement of a different kind. Their friendship stood in sharp contrast with the mounting hostility and war between their respective countries, and the latter arguably amounted to a cessation of political judgement: if not necessarily at a national level (e.g., within British society), then perhaps at an international level, insofar as the violence of war had replaced diplomacy and international treaties. Under these circumstances, then, the enduring friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer embodied defiance of this failure of judgement, and indeed a judgement concerning that failure. This line of interpretation seems to presuppose, however, that judgement and the use of force are mutually exclusive. Yet the notion of ‘emergency judgement’, discussed in the previous chapter (Section II), implies that judgment and force can go together: emergency judgement does not consist merely in the use of force, but rather judgement exercised through extraordinary means, in the absence of the ordinary organs of judgement, or other cases of ‘failed’ judgement (iudicium cessans). In fact, Oliver O’Donovan points out that this notion of emergency judgement is also the basic principle of the just war tradition. This tradition, O’Donovan writes, understands war as ‘the paradigm case of iudicium cessans’.9 War is an extraordinary form of judgement insofar as it consists in judgement 7

8 9

Cf. Hannah Arendt, ‘On Humanity in Dark Times: Thoughts about Lessing’, in Men in Dark Times (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1968), pp. 3–31 (23). See Chapter 4, Section III. Oliver O’Donovan, The Ways of Judgment (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), p. 225.

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pronounced primarily through force. The party intervening as ‘judge’ can only perform this role in the mode of a party involved in the conflict. From an objective point of view, one can only see armed conflict. Yet the just war tradition insists that the attacks mounted and punishments suffered in war can nevertheless be expressions of judgement.10 According to this line of interpretation, even a conflict like World War II does not necessarily amount to a complete failure in judgement. Indeed, from an Allied perspective, it could be argued that this war was an extraordinary means by which to execute judgement: while the Allies acted as a party in the conflict, what they actually did was judge and punish an aggressor (Germany), on behalf of victimized third parties (e.g., Germanoccupied countries). If the war did not amount to a complete ‘cessation’ of judgement, then it becomes more difficult to maintain that the friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer was an expression of emergency judgement. However, what should be noted in relation to this war in particular was that it had turned into a ‘total’ war. Each of the main parties was increasingly bent on the destruction of the other, using mass propaganda to encourage the demonization of the enemy required for this approach.11 Testament to this is the hostility and suspicion that met Bell’s protests in the House of Lords against the systematic night bombings of German cities, during the latter part of the war.12 With destruction of the enemy becoming the stated aim of the war efforts, it seems that neither party could credibly present itself (or be seen) as taking the role of ‘judge’. This is not to say that there was no element of judgement in this war whatsoever. Indeed, from a Biblical and theological perspective one might argue that despite the criminal ways in which a war is waged, its outcome may still be providential, expressing divine 10

11

12

In the context of war the principle of iudicium cessans means that the original duel between aggressors (or offender and defender) must be transformed into a ‘triangular relation of judge to victim and assailant’. Ibid. This transformation means that ‘[t]he anarchic logic of self-defense is . . . replaced by the ordered logic of judgment’. This exercise of judgement is extraordinary since the threat faced in war ‘falls outside the competence of any judiciary to control’. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 225. Formally speaking, therefore, war remains a duel that is settled through the use of violence. Cf. Francisco de Vitoria, On the Law of War (1532), esp. ‘Conclusion’. See also Oliver O’Donovan, The Just War Revisited (Current Issues in Theology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 1–63, 96, 133. Joseph Goebbels was the first formally to invoke a ‘total war’ (totaler Krieg), in his Sportpalast speech (18 February 1943). Yet the Allied response was arguably just as ‘total’, seen in the demand for Germany’s unconditional surrender, and especially in the tapestry bombings of German cities. For Bell’s challenging of rhetoric supporting these policies, during debates in the House of Lords, see Peter Raina, Bishop George Bell: The Greatest Churchman – A Portrait in Letters (London: Churches Together in Britain and Ireland, 2006), pp. 261–9. Cf. also Ferdinand Schlingensiepen, Dietrich Bonhoeffer 1906–1945: Martyr, Thinker, Man of Resistance (trans. Isabel Best; London: T&T Clark, 2010), p. 266. See Chapter 2, Section I.

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judgement.13 As far as the warring parties themselves are concerned, however, their actions can only be remotely judicial if intended as ‘punishment’; that is, as retribution that expresses judgement (vindication as well as condemnation) and thereby allows for restoration of peace and (ultimately) reconciliation.14 To seek to destroy the other party, by contrast, is to give up on justice altogether. From this perspective, then, one might indeed say that the enduring faithfulness between Bell and Bonhoeffer stood in sharp contrast with the war policies of their respective governments, as supported by most of their compatriots.15 While neither of them could be accused of being unpatriotic,16 their friendship formed an island of ‘ecumenism’ in an ocean of partisan patriotism. Or, as Arendt might say: in a context marked by the loss of common sense, friendships such as theirs meant that at least some common sense was preserved.17 Just as ethically mixed friendships expressed judgement over the collapse of judgement that was Nazism, the friendship of Bell and Bonhoeffer expressed judgement over the failure of judgement that was World War II. For Bell and Bonhoeffer, to remain faithful in their friendship was to defy and challenge the popular and State-promoted hatred towards the enemy that each witnessed at home. Indeed, to choose each other’s company was already to judge such collective hatred. Yet these reflections still only suggest, in a rather general sense, how the friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer was an expression of judgement. The next step is to identify a specific moment (or moments) in their story when they exercised judgement together in a more explicit sense; and perhaps even moments when they actually seized the office of judgement normally reserved for the political authorities.

Revisiting Sigtuna An obvious episode to choose in this context is the friends’ secret meeting at the Ecumenical Institute in Sigtuna, on 31 May 1942 – the key events of which were discussed in Chapter 2 (Sections II and III). It was established there that during 13

14 15

16 17

The Old Testament presents Yahweh as using foreign kings to punish the nations, including Israel, yet without necessarily approving of their ‘methods’. Cf. Isa. 8.1–10; 10.5–19. See also Isa. 45.1–13. More generally, God is understood to make evil human intentions serve good purposes, as in Gen. 50.20. Cf. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 107. On the generally more nuanced stance of the British churches, see Keith W. Clements, A Patriotism for Today: Dialogue with Dietrich Bonhoeffer (Bristol: Bristol Baptist College, 1984), p. 159. Ibid., pp. 17–37. Cf. Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, pp. 241, 246–7. Cf. Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1998), p. 209. Idem, ‘Humanity in Dark Times’, p. 23.

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their meeting at Sigtuna Bell and Bonhoeffer, together with the four other pastors present, found themselves in an extraordinary position: due to the particular combination of the people gathered and the highly sensitive information shared between them, they faced exceptional opportunities to intervene in the politics of the war that was devastating Europe. It was suggested at the end of Chapter 2 that by speaking and acting as they did, Bell and Bonhoeffer acted ‘parapolitically’. More precisely, that through their initiatives they accepted political responsibility; that in seeking to prepare the ground for peace negotiations between Germany and the Allies, they supported the task of government; and that the kind of mediation they offered was even indispensable to the success of what would have to be undertaken by respective governments, namely establishing peace between their nations; and finally, that Bell and Bonhoeffer were already ahead of the political process, in that their friendship was the harbinger of the peace to be restored between the warring nations.18 This analysis was complemented in Chapter 3 with further reflections on the element of ‘common action’ in the relationship between Bell and Bonhoeffer, and their interaction at Sigtuna in particular. It was argued there that their agreement involved a mutual promise, in the political sense highlighted by Arendt; furthermore, that their promising formed the essential beginning of the political process of peace negotiations and, eventually, the ratification of a peace treaty. It was concluded, however, that a more precise description of the ‘parapolitics’ in Bell and Bonhoeffer’s interaction requires a more sophisticated account of practices that are not only significant for public life, but more specifically political. Chapter 4 proposed ‘judgement’ as this specifically political practice, suggesting that friendship constitutes a forum for, or sometimes even an embodiment of, this practice. As the focus turns back to the Sigtuna episode once again, to what extent does this account of judgement – and particularly judgement in friendship – help in identifying the parapolitics in the interaction between Bell and Bonhoeffer during their meeting at Sigtuna? Did they also exercise judgement, in addition to, that is, ‘embodying’ it in the more general and implicit sense suggested earlier? It must be noted, first of all, that if at Sigtuna Bell and Bonhoeffer did indeed accept the political task of judgement, then they did so only by endorsing and affirming judgements already made by the German resistance. One need not assume that the resistance constituted the ‘unofficial’ German government in order to recognize the planned coup as an expression of judgement. The statements offered by Schönfeld and Bonhoeffer, written down and presented 18

See Chapter 2, Section III.

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by Bell to the British foreign secretary, listed the following aims of the planned coup (among others): an end to Germany’s military aggression and retreat from the occupied countries; an end to the persecution of the Jews and restitution of their goods; and a return to the rule of law.19 The coup was intended, then, as an extraordinary act of government, a radical act of judgement that would restore the day-to-day practice of government to its judicial core. Furthermore, to the extent that plans for a coup had already been developed, this judgement had been pronounced. What was communicated to Bell, via Schönfeld and Bonhoeffer, was in fact a political judgement. Moreover, the plan was not based on the fantasies of a fringe movement, but had the support of a network of senior generals, civil servants and other public figures. It was not wholly implausible for this network to carry out the coup, and subsequently seize governmental responsibility.20 In agreeing to act as messenger to the British government, Bell in turn joined Bonhoeffer in affirming the resistance’s judgement, and sharing the accompanying burden of responsibility the resistance had already accepted. In fact, their judgement was extended as a result of Bell’s agreement: while the resistance was preparing itself to enact judgement on behalf of Germany, what they received in Bell’s support was endorsement of their judgement from across enemy lines. This is not to say, of course, that Bell automatically represented British opinions, let alone those of the Allied nations in general. Indeed, Bell would eventually fail to persuade the British government to support the German resistance. Yet at Sigtuna his agreement to cooperate surely was a hopeful sign, keeping alive hopes for the restoration of peaceful international relations.

Diplomacy or repentance In order to appreciate the significance of the proceedings at Sigtuna, however, it is also important to pay attention to the level of disagreement that also surfaced during that meeting. Chapter 2 already described the fallout between Bonhoeffer and Schönfeld over the question of how the work of the resistance were to be carried out and explained. Schönfeld took an antagonistic approach, presuming each party would act out of self-interest: he emphasized Germany’s military power and defended its rights within the international arena. Bonhoeffer rejected this approach and spoke rather of repentance. Behind this disagreement lay wider 19 20

See Raina, George Bell, pp. 237–41, 244–9. Cf. Ibid., p. 238. See Chapter 2, Section II.

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rifts within the resistance, with Schönfeld and Bonhoeffer representing different circles within the resistance – the Kreisau Circle and Berlin Circle respectively.21 At the time of the meeting at Sigtuna these groups did not (yet) fully trust each other. Generally, the members of the former believed in the possibility of a negotiated peace and insisted that the Allies respect Germany’s sovereignty and territorial rights, and allow it an honourable transition to peace. Within the Berlin circle, however, there were people, such as Bonhoeffer, who thought that these expectations and demands were preposterous given all that had happened since 1933. Instead, they had put their hope in peace on an altogether new basis – one in which old grievances and claims would have to be surrendered. The friends (with the other four pastors) did not arrive at common judgement without first addressing these competing assessments of the political situation. This account of the views held by the two ‘circles’, however, is still somewhat simplified. This, at least, is suggested by the research on the German resistance that Arendt included in the second edition of her Eichmann in Jerusalem, based on new material that had become available.22 On the whole, Arendt’s verdict on the resistance is damning: concerning the generals and the other prominent figures who led the resistance, she writes that they had not only been late in coming to action, but had been motivated ‘almost exclusively by their conviction of the coming defeat and ruin of Germany’, rather than ‘moral indignation or by what they knew other people had been made to suffer’.23 More importantly, she shows that this attitude is particularly clear in the case of Carl Goerdeler, the unofficial leader of the resistance.24 Goerdeler belonged to the Berlin Circle (the circle with which Bonhoeffer too was most closely involved), and was distrusted by the Kreisau Circle for his conservative political views.25 In addition, Arendt quotes a troubling passage in a draft proclamation by General Ludwig Beck, another member of the Berlin Circle, where it is stated that the Army would go

21

22

23 24

25

See Chapter 2, Section II. On earlier conflicts between Schönfeld and Bonhoeffer, see Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, pp. 84, 187, 237, 248. Cf. also John A. Moses, ‘Bonhoeffer’s Germany: The Political Context’, in The Cambridge Companion to Dietrich Bonhoeffer (ed. John W. de Gruchy; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 3–21 (18). Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment: 1940–1945 (ed. Mark S. Brocker; trans. Lisa E. Dahill; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 16, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006), p. 300n74. Hannah Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil (Middlesex: Penguin, 1994), pp. 97–105. Ibid., p. 100. Arendt quotes from a draft by Goerdeler for a letter to Field Marshal von Kluge, in which he merely observes that the persecution of the Jews ‘will make our position [negotiating a peace treaty with the Allies] enormously difficult’. Ibid., p. 101. Eberhard Bethge, Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Theologian – Christian – Contemporary (New York: Fount, 1985), pp. 654, 663.

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on fighting ‘until an honorable conclusion of the war has been assured’.26 This is not the place, of course, to discuss at length the integrity and motives of the leaders of the German resistance.27 Yet what Arendt’s commentary suggests is that Schönfeld’s views cannot simply be ascribed to the Kreisau Circle only, and that similar views were held within the circle Bonhoeffer belonged to. More importantly, if the differences between the two circles were not clear cut, then it will be all the more important to focus on what was actually said by those who met at Sigtuna. As Bell reports in his diary, during the meeting of six Bonhoeffer interrupted Schönfeld when the latter tried to convince them that the Allies were ‘obliged’ to cooperate with the resistance. Bonhoeffer objected that the German people were not in a position to make such demands: their support of the resistance was rather to be ‘such as will be understood as act of repentance [sic] and spoken out’.28 This remark (as quoted by Bell) echoes very similar words in Bonhoeffer’s essay ‘Guilt, Justification, Renewal’, which he had written in 1940 as a chapter for his Ethics.29 In this essay Bonhoeffer speaks of the need for Christians to take a lead in accepting culpability for the evils that had corrupted German society.30 In alluding to the practice of repentance, Bonhoeffer chooses a very different register from Schönfeld’s, one that is explicitly Christian and shaped by theological reflection. Certainly, Schönfeld had emphasized the role that the Evangelical Churches and the Roman Catholic Church played in supporting the resistance.31 Indeed, in his written statement he listed as one of the resistance’s aims the re-orientation of the ‘foundations and principles of national and social life’ within a future federation of European nations ‘towards the fundamental 26

27

28 29

30

31

Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem, p. 102. Arendt adds that this conclusion implied ‘the annexation of Alsace-Lorraine, Austria, and the Sudetenland’. Arendt’s assessment is not beyond criticism, for example when she claims that ‘Goerdeler was considering Himmler and Goebbels as potential allies.’ Ibid., p. 100. The statements by Schönfeld and Bonhoeffer indicate that this alliance was already part of the plans in 1942, yet only for strictly tactical purposes: after a successful coup the Army would eliminate the SS elite and other highranking Nazis. See Raina, George Bell, pp. 238, 240, 245. The plans to cooperate with Himmler were later abandoned anyway; see Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 668. Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, pp. 274–6, 281–5. Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment, p. 300. See also Appendix 1. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Ethics (ed. Clifford J. Green; trans. Reinhard Krauss et al.; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 6, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), pp. 134–45. Bonhoeffer had previously spoken of Germany’s guilt in relation to World War I; see Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, p. 70. Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), pp. 138–40. Here the primary context is the church, as a community where (vicarious) confession of guilt ought to be practised. This theme will be addressed in Chapter 7, Section I. According to his written statement, they were ‘acting together as the great corporations and as centres of resistance and reconstruction’. Raina, George Bell, p. 238. However, ‘[t]he assertion that the churches’ opposition in Germany was successful could only come from the Church External Affairs Office, and is . . . unthinkable in Bonhoeffer’s mouth’. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 667.

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principles of Christian faith and life’.32 For Schönfeld, however, such observations served to prove the strength of the resistance. For him, the emphasis on the Christian and humanistic character of the resistance did not conflict with his view that it was the Allies, not Germany, who were responsible for an early end to the war. As was pointed out previously, he did not shy away from hinting at Germany’s military power to underscore his argument. His statement barely acknowledges the shared responsibility of the German people for the horror and destruction wrought up to that point, let alone the need to repent.33 Instead, Schönfeld was keen to point out that in case the Allies would not listen, the resistance and the Army were ‘ready to go on with the war to the bitter end’.34 The contrast with Bonhoeffer’s words is obvious. Bonhoeffer was clearly frustrated by Schönfeld’s failure to recognize that no future peace negotiations between the Allies and a new German government could gloss over the aggression and atrocities perpetrated by the German people, regardless of the particular culpability of specific individuals as well as the Nazi leadership collectively. By speaking of the need for repentance, Bonhoeffer reminded his German colleague that the crimes of this regime were committed in their names, and indeed in their midst.35 Schönfeld may not have disagreed, of course, yet he had chosen to focus on more pragmatic issues, including securing the necessary conditions for a negotiated peace; whereas Bonhoeffer took the long view, focusing on the uncomfortable questions that the German people, and the German churches in particular, would have to face in the aftermath of the war. What Schönfeld was aiming for, then, was political judgement in a more conventional sense, whereas Bonhoeffer was thinking about what would be required for genuine reconciliation between Germany and other peoples – a process that could be facilitated, yet not realized, through conventional political means. Indeed, Schönfeld still believed that peace could be achieved through traditional diplomatic means, whereas Bonhoeffer had given up any such hopes.36 And this suggests that for Bonhoeffer and Schönfeld respectively, the point of the meeting and subsequent action was very different. For Schönfeld it was to do the Allies a favour (e.g., disclosing sensitive information), in the hope of receiving favours in return (e.g., covert 32 33

34 35

36

Raina, George Bell, p. 239. Schönfeld merely remarked (in Bell’s words) that ‘many Germans were convinced that they must make great sacrifices out of their own personal incomes to atone for the damage Germany had done in the occupied territories’. Ibid., pp. 231–2. Ibid., p. 239. The notion of collective guilt is controversial and fraught with difficulties. Cf. Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem, pp. 251–2, 297–8. The same applies for collective repentance (and forgiveness); cf. Anthony Bash, Forgiveness and Christian Ethics (New Studies in Christian Ethics, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 111–40. See also Chapter 7, Section I. Cf. Schlingensiepen, Bonhoeffer, p. 291.

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support, negotiated peace). Bonhoeffer dismissed the idea that the German people could still claim a position from which to enter such negotiations. In his view the German people  – and at least Christians among them – should freely forego the conditions that the Allies were likely to deny them anyway. For  Bonhoeffer, then, the point of the meeting was to communicate to the enemy not only that the resistance was serious in their wish to topple Hitler’s regime, but also that they were willing to make personal sacrifices in seeking to re-establish peace.37 This account of their differences does not imply that Bonhoeffer ignored the political dimensions of what was discussed at Sigtuna. A process of reconciliation as envisaged by him would not only require government agency,38 but would also involve the restoration of social life – in a much more profound sense than is normally achieved through discrete acts of judgement.39 More specifically, however, Bonhoeffer did not intend repentance as an alternative to the work of the resistance, or indeed to any effort at bringing about peace negotiations, for he maintained that this work was to be performed as an ‘act of repentance’. In other words, his ‘act of repentance’ might well involve acts of political judgement too (in the sense described earlier) were to express repentance as well. Yet how could judgement be simultaneously penitential? And how does such penitential judgement relate to more conventional acts of judgment? The next section will seek to answer these questions: not just for the sake of exploring the relation between judgement and repentance in itself, but especially in order to clarify the role friendship played during the Sigtuna proceedings.

II  Judgement in repentance and forgiveness How could acts of political judgement – as proposed by the German resistance and supported by Bonhoeffer – simultaneously be acts of repentance? One way of answering this question is to focus on the repentance that Bonhoeffer advocated, and point to the extent in which such repentance was in itself already an expression of political judgement. That is to say: by urging Schönfeld 37

38

39

From Bell’s diary we learn that, according to Bonhoeffer, repentance meant acceptance of suffering, even if one were not personally culpable: ‘our innocent ones suffer, as the innocent Poles suffer’. See Appendix 1. Bethge observes that ‘[n]o doubt Schönfeld is here the more politic, but in this case and at this moment Bonhoeffer is the better and more effective diplomat’. Bethge, Bonhoeffer, p. 667. Cf. ‘State and Church’ (1941), in Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Ethics (ed. Eberhard Bethge; London: SCM Press, 1960), pp. 304–6. Cf. Chapter 1, Section I.

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and other fellow-Germans to understand the work of resistance as a work of repentance, Bonhoeffer showed acute discernment of the crisis they were facing. His discernment was informed by Christian practice and theological insight, yet not for that reason in any sense less politically astute. On the contrary: such practice and insight allowed him to see the geo-political situation from a perspective much wider than any strictly national or diplomatic perspective. He recognized that any German attempt to overcome the conflict that ignored the share of all Germans in the responsibility for the terror and aggression perpetrated by the Nazi State would be misguided. Any political judgement – whether exercised through a coup or a peace treaty – that did not acknowledge this reality would be less than truthful, and therefore fail to provide a basis for genuine peace. Indeed, Bonhoeffer’s comment gives expression to the ‘enlarged mentality’ that Arendt (following Kant) identifies as a mark of judgement.40 Bonhoeffer was able to look ‘through the eyes’ of Germany’s victims and enemies as well as his own and those of fellow-Germans. Schönfeld’s perspective was much more ‘private’ by comparison, focusing as it did on the rights and interests of the German people only.41 It is here that the role of friendship, too, becomes apparent. At the Sigtuna meeting both Bonhoeffer and Schönfeld spoke primarily from a German point of view – although in rather different ways. As for the other four pastors present, while three of them were from neutral Sweden, it was Bell who represented Great Britain (and the Allied nations more generally). Now, the difference between Bonhoeffer and Schönfeld in the way they spoke for Germany also extended to how each of them approached Bell, the unofficial ‘representative’ of Germany’s enemies.42 Schönfeld sought to persuade by appealing to national self-interest; Bonhoeffer, by contrast, was able to look at his own country and people from an Allied perspective – the perspective of those represented by Bell. It is as if, facing his friend, he was prompted to see things from his friend’s perspective rather than his own, and thus from the perspective of Germany’s enemies and victims. This moment of ‘role reversal’ is a good example of the dynamic of mutual dependence explored in Chapter 3, and particularly of judgement exercised through adopting the viewpoints of others, as explored in Chapter 4. Bonhoeffer’s interruption of Schönfeld, then, was an act of friendship as much

40 41 42

See Chapter 4, Section III. Cf. Ronald Beiner, Political Judgment (London: Methuen, 1983), pp. 138–44. Though Bell was part of an official delegation, sent by the British Government; see Chapter 2, Section II.

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as an act of judgement: one that was affirmed in Bell’s subsequent agreement to cooperate. It would be a mistake, however, to conclude that friendship ‘caused’ this agreement, or that Schönfeld could not have persuaded Bell simply because he was not his friend. The friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer did not replace their respective national ties and affections. For Bonhoeffer to forego the notion of a negotiated peace, or for Bell actively to support a German network few at home trusted, was not an easy thing to do – and hardly made any easier by the intensity or longevity of their friendship. Such factors are only relevant as a background to the fresh challenge they were now facing. If they had learned over the years to be friends in words, deeds and judgements, would they now be able to continue to do so in the current political circumstances, under the pressure of the demands for national allegiance that weighed down on both of them? In other words, the point here is not that the fault line between agreement and disagreement coincided with the boundary between friends and non-friends – between Bell and Bonhoeffer on the one hand, and Schönfeld on the other. The point is rather that during the meeting it was for Schönfeld to decide whether he would ‘choose company’ with Bell and Bonhoeffer, and share their common judgements. And this, it seems, is what he eventually was able to do.43

Repentance ‘as’ judgement? Thus Bonhoeffer’s observation concerning the need for himself and his com­ patriots to support the resistance from an attitude of repentance was in fact an exercise of political judgement – or at least discernment preparing for such judgment. Bonhoeffer’s judgement was shaped and informed by his friendship with Bell, particularly by the habits of mutual dependence and common judgement. Yet there is a difference between observing a need for repentance, and actually practising it. In saying what he did at Sigtuna, Bonhoeffer primarily did the former – whereas his intention to do the latter was only implied. But if it is assumed that Bonhoeffer did indeed regard the actual work of the resistance as a form of repentance, then what does that imply in terms of judgement: if that work amounted to judgment executed and pronounced partly through the use of force (as argued above, Section I), then what does it mean to interpret it in turn as ‘an act of repentance’? 43

Cf. Appendix 1.

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It will be useful at this point briefly to return to the relation between judgement and forgiveness discussed in the previous chapter (Section I). Unlike promising, both judgement and forgiveness are retrospective acts, reflecting on past events, and both aim at breaking the vicious cycle of offence and revenge. Forgiveness cannot be genuine unless it starts from the condemnation of a previous offence. As Arendt puts it: ‘Every judgment is open to forgiveness, every act of judging can change into an act of forgiving; to judge and to forgive are but the two sides of the same coin.’44 Similarly, judgement, in aiming for the restoration of the offender as well as vindicating the victim, clears space for forgiveness and repentance. The fact that judgement allows for repentance as well as forgiveness already suggests how repentance as envisaged by Bonhoeffer might relate to the judgements of the resistance. Given the specific circumstances of that time, judgement as exercised and executed by the resistance would or could entail the kind of judgement normally restricted to political office, through the use of force (e.g., a coup) and, later on, presumably by way of peace negotiations and peace treaties. From the perspective of political judgement (extraordinary in terms of agent and context, yet ordinary in terms of the means used), the practices of forgiveness and repentance only enter the frame at the very end of the process  – that is, as part of the reconciliation process that should be facilitated through the political office of judgement. Such eventual reconciliation – reconciliation within Germany as well as between the nations – would retrospectively affirm and deepen what would have been expressed inchoately through judgement at the time of armed conflict. Bonhoeffer, however, spoke of repentance, not forgiveness. Forgiveness and repentance are distinct practices within the overall process of reconciliation (although in many conflicts both need to be adopted by both parties). Certainly, both repentance and forgiveness are required if reconciliation it to take place. If the offending party pleads guilty and shows repentance, but the offended party is unable to forgive, then repentance is not (yet) allowed to move towards reconciliation. Similarly, if the offended party offers forgiveness, yet the offending party is unable to confess guilt, or show signs of repentance, then the forgiveness offered – however genuine – is not (yet) allowed to bear fruit in reconciliation. Christians may seek to emulate the example of Jesus and Stephen and pray for God’s forgiveness for the unrepentant45 – and may indeed find the 44

45

Hannah Arendt, ‘Bertold Brecht: 1898–1956’, in Men in Dark Times (New York: Harcourt, 1968), pp. 207–49 (248). See Lk. 23.34 and Acts 7.60.

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grace to offer forgiveness in such situations. Yet such unconditional forgiveness is intelligible only in the light of humanity’s common sinfulness before God, and God’s abundant mercy and forgiveness prompting its recipients not to withhold forgiveness from each other.46 For human sinners to forgive a neighbour is itself rooted in an attitude of repentance before God. Even within the greater drama of God’s dealings with humanity, then, forgiveness cannot be separated from repentance.47 Nevertheless, repentance and forgiveness are distinct practices, and corres­ pondingly relate to judgement in different ways. No process of reconciliation can do without either judgement, repentance or forgiveness: all three are required, as complementary components or ‘voices’ in that process.48 Judgement and forgiveness are complementary in that judgement allows for forgiveness, with the latter building on the former. Repentance, like forgiveness, thus typically follows judgement.49 Yet whereas forgiveness seeks to move beyond judgement, repentance is primarily an act wherein the offender appropriates the judgement of a third party – by accepting whatever punishment has been meted out, for example, or through works of penance that go beyond what has been exacted. Alternatively, an offender may confess and repent even when no judgement has yet been given: the offender anticipates and invites the exercise of judgement by others. There is judgement in repentance, and particularly in its element of confession. As an act of confession, repentance bears an even closer similarity to judgement than forgiveness. While forgiveness consists in the vindication of the offender ‘behind’ the offence,50 both judgement and confession primarily aim at a truthful description of the offence. In confessing guilt, the offender not only anticipates the judgement of others, but in a sense already pronounces judgement on himself. The offender, of course, is not in a position to pre-empt the judgement of third parties, or indeed pre-empt the forgiveness from the offended party. To anticipate judgement in repentance is precisely to submit to the offended party as well as any third party, which implies willingness to suffer judgement. In criminal justice not even the forgiveness offered by the victim can pre-empt the punishment meted out by the court. Repentance, then, does not exhaust the task 46 47 48

49 50

Cf. Jesus’ parable of the Unforgiving Servant, in Mt. 18.23–35. Cf. Bash, Forgiveness, pp. 36–110. Interestingly, repentance does not feature in Arendt’s writings. Brent Waters observes that Arendt ‘ignores confession and repentance altogether’. Brent Waters, ‘Judgment, Responsibility, and Forgiveness in the Civil Community’ (unpublished paper). Ibid. Cf. Augustine’s advice ‘to love the sinner but hate the sin’, Ep. 211.

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of judgment. The same goes for forgiveness. It may be true that every judgement is ‘open’ to forgiveness, as Arendt puts it. Yet this does not mean that judgement brings about forgiveness in and of itself. Nor is the task of judgement fulfilled in forgiveness only. In some cases only judgement pronounced by a third party – confronting the perpetrator with his deeds – can clear the necessary ‘space’ for repentance as well as forgiveness to take place.51 When applied to the Sigtuna meeting, the above reflections suggest that the act of repentance Bonhoeffer has in mind is not only an important initiative towards an anticipated process of reconciliation (in the hope of forgiveness from Germany’s victims and enemies), but also an act of self-indictment and, more importantly perhaps, an invitation to judge. Thus, in admitting to bearing at least partial responsibility for the crimes of his country and people, Bonhoeffer creates space for judgement. And this, in turn, sheds new light on his suggestion that the work of the resistance needs to be shaped by repentance. Bonhoeffer seems to say that while preparing to enact judgement on the Nazi regime, partly through violent means, they should nevertheless act so as to invite judgement from others: if not from the immediate victims of Nazi aggression, then at least from whatever ‘third party’ would come forward.

Friendship and reconciliation What do these reflections add to the observations made earlier concerning the Sigtuna meeting, including the role played by friendship in the formation of judgement? When Bonhoeffer interrupted Schönfeld with his comment about repentance, it was Bell who responded. ‘When Bonhoeffer spoke of the importance of the Germans declaring their repentance,’ Bell recalls in a lecture, ‘I expressed very strong agreement.’52 It was Bonhoeffer’s emphasis on repentance that assured Bell that the resistance deserved his support. Earlier this agreement between Bell and Bonhoeffer was interpreted in terms of common judgement, shaped by the habits of friendship. In the light of the above reflections on forgiveness and repentance, it seems this analysis can be refined yet further. If Bonhoeffer’s comment was an implicit declaration of repentance and confession of guilt, then it is now also suggested that the ‘strong agreement’ that his friend 51

52

Arendt is rather imprecise, then, in claiming that ‘every act of judging can change into an act of forgiving’ (emphasis added). Arendt, ‘Bertold Brecht: 1898–1956’, p. 248. Similarly, she seems mistaken in presenting forgiveness and punishment are alternatives. See Idem, The Human Condition, p. 241. Waters rightly corrects this by stating that ‘forgiveness is an act in response to punishment, and subsequent promises or amendment of life’ (emphasis added). Waters, ‘Judgment’. Raina, George Bell, p. 235.

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Bell expressed in response was in fact an offer of forgiveness. Neither Bell nor Bonhoeffer, of course spoke from a strictly personal perspective. Indeed, none of the six pastors attended the meeting for strictly personal reasons. Bell, Bonhoeffer and Schönfeld in particular were meeting as unofficial representatives of their respective countries, to discuss matters of great consequence for the way the war might develop, and the ways in which relations between European nations might be restored in the aftermath of the war. Thus Bonhoeffer’s remark about repentance was not merely a personal confession of guilt (though it was that too), but a call to fellow-Germans like Schönfeld to join him in recognizing their share in responsibility. In addition, however, Bonhoeffer also intended repentance that was declared and practised ‘vicariously’ – not just on behalf of the German people (which is easily done in a facile way53), but through acceptance of personal responsibility above and beyond one’s strictly personal culpability. It is here in particular that Bonhoeffer disagreed with Schönfeld. Bonhoeffer thought Schönfeld was mistaken in assuming that Germans like himself and Bonhoeffer, however much they opposed the Nazi regime, could somehow separate themselves from the guilt of the people and the country that had allowed Nazism to emerge.54 In Bonhoeffer’s eyes, therefore, it was impossible to prepare a coup or even engage in peace negotiations, without acknowledging this fact. And if Bonhoeffer’s declaration of repentance was ‘vicarious’ as well as personal, then Bell’s response, too, was presumably more than strictly personal: a vicarious declaration of forgiveness and reconciliation, if not formally ‘on behalf of ’ the British people, then at least as an early sign and encouragement of the forgiveness they might one day be able to show. In any case, insofar as Bell was ready to  put his reputation at risk, and Bonhoeffer his very life, their acts of vicarious repentance and forgiveness were anything but facile. While these gestures of repentance and forgiveness were clearly made in anticipation of future national and international reconciliation, and even as precursors to such reconciliation, what should not be overlooked is the role of friendship in this. It was before his friend that Bonhoeffer offered repentance and relinquished claims for guarantees (for himself personally, or for the resistance more broadly). In other words, it was the trust of friendship that allowed him to submit to judgement and accept the sacrifices of repentance. The fact that this declaration came from the mouth of his friend surely encouraged Bell, for 53 54

Cf. Bash, Forgiveness, pp. 112–14. On Bonhoeffer’s notion of the ‘taking on’ of the guilt of others, in response to Christ’s ‘vicarious representative action’ (Stellvertretung), see Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), pp. 231–5, 257–69. See Chapter 7, Section I.

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his part, to accept and respond favourably to it. In shouldering the burdens of reconciliation, among which very personal costs, this friendship functioned as a promise and harbinger of future peace. Finally, if their respective gestures of repentance and forgiveness were indeed expressions of judgement (judgement anticipated in repentance and forgiveness), then together these gestures gave expression to their common judgement: if not political judgement in an ordinary or conventional sense, then at least judgement responding to a widespread failure or ‘vacuum’ of judgement.

III  Spectatorship or obedience What the exercise of revisiting the Sigtuna episode has delivered so far is the suggestion that during the Sigtuna meeting Bell and Bonhoeffer seized the political task of judgement, a task that at the level of international politics had effectively been replaced by the violence of war. It was two friends who performed this task, namely insofar as Bell and Bonhoeffer were together able to take personal yet ‘vicarious’, and personally costly, steps towards peace and reconciliation. I suggested that their gestures of repentance and forgiveness were implicit acts of political judgement: though not necessarily exhausting the task of judgement, they pointed towards and prepared for its truthful exercise. And especially because Bell and Bonhoeffer were acting vicariously, with a view to their respective peoples and countries, their repentance and forgiveness anticipated the third-party perspective of judgement. In short, at Sigtuna political judgement was exercised through ‘friendly’ words and deeds. This conclusion is the result of an attempt to highlight as much as possible the element of judgement during the Sigtuna meeting, and in particular within the exchange between Bell and Bonhoeffer. This exercise, however, should not be allowed to obscure other dimensions of that exchange. Nor should the particularity of what happened at Sigtuna be ignored – that is, the fact that what took place cannot be pressed wholly or neatly into the category of judgement. For example, while Bonhoeffer’s response to Schönfeld may have implied astute political judgement, his primary message was one of repentance: the resistance movement had to learn that their opposition to the Nazi State did not relieve them of the need to acknowledge a share in responsibility for the crimes perpetrated by it. As Bonhoeffer put it, ‘we do not want to escape repentance’.55 55

See Appendix 1.

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In Bell’s record of the meeting, Bonhoeffer repeats these words a moment later, but this time adding the following crucial comment: ‘Christians do not wish to escape repentance, or chaos if God wills to bring it on us. We must take this judgment as Christians.’ Thus Bonhoeffer is convinced that, regardless of the success of any future coup, Germany was headed for more disaster and suffering, and moreover that such disaster and suffering were expressions of God’s judgement.56 This is not the place to reflect in any depth on the relation of suffering and divine judgement. What is clear, however, is that Bonhoeffer understood his repentance first and foremost as acceptance of and a response to judgement. The judgement to be accepted by Germans like himself and Schönfeld, was God’s judgement. As Bonhoeffer puts it (again in Bell’s words), ‘[t]here must be punishment by God’. Bonhoeffer positioned himself primarily as an ‘object’ of judgement, rather than its ‘subject’ or ‘agent’, as someone who suffers judgement instead of pronouncing or executing it.57 This nuance also affects the nature of the friends’ ‘common judgement’. If Bell’s gesture of forgiveness was a genuine response to Bonhoeffer’s repentance, then it was likewise primarily a response to judgement – the same judgement to which Bonhoeffer submitted. Thus the two friends exercised judgement together only insofar as they together submitted to God’s judgement. Only in that sense was there common judgement ‘in’ their acts of repentance and forgiveness. What has been hinted at earlier is now being affirmed: not only didn’t the friends seek to wrest the task of judgement from the political authorities (i.e., due to the emergency they were facing), but they didn’t consider themselves authorised to judge at all. What they sought to do instead, and Bonhoeffer in particular, was to devote themselves to the practical task of halting the Nazi Sate, and thereby establishing basic conditions for future peace and reconciliation. Of course, the resistance anticipated that this task would involve violence, and hence ‘de facto’ execution of judgement as well. Yet as far as Bonhoeffer was concerned, any judgement expressed in their actions would ultimately be God’s judgement – a judgement the resistance ought to be willing to suffer as much the rest of Germany. This conclusion throws new light on the notion of friendship ‘embodying’ judgement in the face of failing political judgement, as developed in the previous chapter in dialogue with Arendt. The question raised by the example of Bell 56 57

Cf. Clements, Patriotism for Today, p. 125. Cf. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship (ed. Geffrey B. Kelly and John Godsey; trans. Barbara Green and Reinhard Krauss; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 4, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), p. 240.

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and Bonhoeffer is whether ‘judgement’ is in fact an appropriate category for describing the kind of political resistance implied by their companionship and collaboration. To describe it in terms of judgement, without further qualification, is to invite the suggestion that in acting and speaking as they did, Bell and Bonhoeffer were (implicitly) executing a task that normally lies in the hands of political functionaries. That is to say: their judgement (as expressed in their companionship and collaboration) implied a direct challenge to the political authorities and their office. Yet, far from assuming the role of judge, Bell and Bonhoeffer intended to leave all judgement to God. ‘Obedience’, then, rather than ‘judgment’, seems to describe their attitude most accurately.58 And even if there was judgement in their obedience, it consisted primarily in discernment regarding how they were to act personally, rather than authoritative condemnation of affairs in the public realm. This emphasis on discernment regarding one’s own conduct (rather than judgement concerning the state of public life in general) is not necessarily in conflict with Arendt’s account of friendship’s political significance in ‘dark’ times. In the days of Nazism, German-Jewish friendships were significant in that they formed islands of humanity in the midst of rampant brutality: they expressed ‘judgement’ implicitly, in the way that light exposes darkness.59 The notion that judgement can take the form of obedience, however, is much harder to reconcile with Arendt’s political thought. Indeed, in her later writings on the subject of judgement Arendt emphasizes independence and detachment as requirements of the task of judgement. Before I move on to explore the political significance of Bell and Bonhoeffer’s ‘obedience’, it will be useful to consider briefly the direction taken in Arendt’s later reflections on judgement. This will help in highlighting, by way of contrast, the distinct character of the friends’ judgements and their political witness more broadly.

Judgement as spectatorship In the final years of her life and career, Arendt’s attention shifted from the ‘life of action’ (vita activa) to the ‘life of the mind’ (vita contemplativa). Indeed, in 1971 she published The Life of the Mind, a work in two volumes – ‘Thinking’ and ‘Willing’. Arendt had hoped but never accomplished to write a third volume on judging. An impression of what she had in mind with this final volume, however, 58 59

On ‘political obedience’, cf. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, pp. 52–5. See also below. Cf. Jn 3.19–21.

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can be gained from her 1970 lecture series on Kant, published in 1982 as Lectures on Kant’s Political Philosophy.60 Various scholars have noted that the account of judgement that Arendt presents in these lectures differs from what can be found in her work from the 1960s, such as ‘The Crisis in Culture’ (1961), ‘Truth and Politics’ (1961), or the lecture series ‘Some Questions of Moral Philosophy’ (1965–6). Opinions vary as to how this difference should be characterized, and what Arendt sought to achieve in her later discussions of judgement.61 What is clear, however, is that in the Kant lectures she is more emphatic in regarding judging as an activity of the mind, rather than one belonging to the life of action. Furthermore, in these lectures the judge becomes a disengaged and disinterested spectator, pitted against the agent immersed in action. Finally, Arendt now regards disengaged judgement as the only way of vindicating agents from the predicaments of the vita activa.62 Regarding the first and second of these differences, Arendt had never denied in her earlier writings that judgement is a mental faculty. Indeed, it is already in ‘Crisis in Culture’ that she draws on Kant’s account of aesthetic judgement and compares a judge with an art critic – a spectator not an agent. However, in the same essay Arendt also emphasizes that judgement must be exercised in the presence of others.63 A judge may not step back too far and withdraw from his fellow-citizens altogether; judgement is part of the life of action or, more narrowly, of the political practices and processes that take place in the public realm. What takes place in politics is not only decisions regarding ‘how [this world] is to look henceforth, what kind of things are to appear in it’ (emphasis added), but also ‘judicious exchange of opinion about the sphere of public life and the common world, and the decision what manner of action is to be taken in it’.64 Thus judgement is a specific act within the totality of ‘human affairs’ taking place in the public realm, and exercised specifically with a view to future action in that realm.65 Judgement is an act performed within the public realm. 60

61

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63 64

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Hannah Arendt, Lectures on Kant’s Political Philosophy (ed. Ronald Beiner; Brighton: Harvester, 1992). Cf. Dana Villa, ‘Introduction: The Development of Arendt’s Political Thought’, in The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt (ed. Dana Villa; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 1–21 (16–19). Ronald Beiner, ‘Hannah Arendt on Judging’, in Hannah Arendt – Lectures on Kant’s Political Philosophy (ed. Ronald Beiner; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), pp. 89–156. The discussion in Chapter 4 (Section II) also drew on the 1971 lecture series ‘Thinking and Moral Considerations’, which is not only a ‘late’ source, presented even after the Kant lectures, but also resembles the latter in focusing on judging as an activity of the mind. Nevertheless, here Arendt seems not interested in separating judge from agent, as she does in the Kant lectures. See Chapter 4, Section III. Hannah Arendt, ‘The Crisis in Culture: Its Social and Its Political Significance’, in Between Past and Future (Middlesex: Penguin Books, 2006), pp. 194–222 (219–20). See also Chapter 4, Section III. Cf. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 7.

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Yet Arendt’s emphases begin to shift in the Kant lectures. Not only does she here follow Kant’s theory of aesthetic judgement more closely, but, like Kant, she is now more interested in judgement as a mental faculty than as a political act. This change does not necessarily signal a loss of interest in politics, or indeed in the political significance of judgement. Arendt’s reason for taking an interest in Kant’s third Critique has remained roughly the same: his account of aesthetic judgement is helpful in that it provides a model for political judgement. This time, however, she also assumes that the Critique (in conjunction with Kant’s political essays) contain a political philosophy in its own right.66 Accordingly, Arendt focuses now on the requirement for the judging subject to detach himself from the realm of action, in order, that is, to be able to assess it appropriately. This time Arendt pays attention to Kant’s political and historical essays as well. In these Kant draws attention to a conflict between agent and spectator, a conflict not so much between different persons as within each citizen.67 In one sense a citizen is fully immersed in practical affairs and involved in political events, yet he is also able to step back from his day-to-day business, reflect on it and assess the larger political developments in which he finds himself caught up. For Kant, the conflict surfaces in the face of major political upheavals such as the French Revolution: the maxims of practical reason forbid the agent to give practical support to the violent overturning of the government; yet as a spectator he cannot be blamed for eagerly following the newspaper reports on those very events. Kant thinks the spectator is in a better position: he can engage with major political events without compromising himself. Assessing what is unfolding before his eyes, he can seek to discern its significance within the overall scheme of world history, submitting – as any good critic would – his views to the judgements of the universal public.68 According to Kant, the agent can be reconciled with the spectator insofar as the former acts on what the latter observes.69 Nevertheless, it is the spectator who has a final say: in the case of the French Revolution, it was the acclaiming public, not the involved agents, who determined its meaning.70 66

67 68 69

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‘The Lectures . . . are an exposition of Kant’s aesthetic and political writings, designed to show that the Critique of Judgment contains the outlines of a powerful and important political philosophy – one that Kant himself did not develop explicitly (and of which he was perhaps not fully conscious).’ Arendt, Lectures on Kant, p. vii. See lectures 7–10. Arendt, Lectures on Kant, pp. 50, 60. ‘All maxims which stand in need of publicity in order not to fail their end agree with politics and right combined.’ Quoted in Ibid., p. 49. Ibid., p. 61.

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Surprisingly, perhaps, Arendt follows Kant in championing the detached judge. In sharp contrast to her earlier work, especially The Human Condition, she now claims that ‘the public realm is constituted by the critics and the spectators, not by the actors or the makers’.71 It is true that in The Human Condition, too, Arendt refers to the practices of theatre and historical narration when expounding her account of political phenomena.72 Yet, whereas there the emphasis lies on the actors as much as on the spectators and historians, the emphasis has now shifted in favour of the latter: Arendt leaves the task of judgement in the hands of a disengaged audience. The separation between agent and spectator, which is a logical component in Kant’s theory of aesthetic judgement, now becomes a central feature of Arendt’s political thought as well. The judge, while assessing political phenomena, has stepped outside the realm of politics. Thus judgement has become hyper-reflective: it no longer consists in a reflective moment within the flow of action and interaction, but has become a distinct exercise, separated from action. In fact, Arendt is even more radical than Kant: whereas the latter sees possibilities for a prospective element in judgement, Arendt rejects this notion; the scope of judgement is now strictly retrospective. As for the Kantian agent and spectator, they are reconciled insofar as the former acts on what the latter observes. Yet Arendt rejects this solution because she rejects some of the standards proposed by Kant as criteria for judgement.73 These standards include not only ‘common sense’ (sensus communis), or ‘exemplary validity’, both of which Arendt refers to in earlier work (and behind which, Arendt explains, lies the notion of human dignity, the notion that no human being or human act can be fully subsumed under universals74). Kant also includes ‘progress’ among these standards – behind which, Arendt explains, lies the notion that human beings are a ‘natural’ species, subject to both natural and historical purposes.75 Arendt is deeply suspicious of this idea of historical progress. In The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951) she argues that it was precisely belief in progress that fuelled the murderous frenzy of the Nazi and Stalinist regimes.76 The idea of 71 72

73 74

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Ibid., p. 63. Idem, The Human Condition, pp. 184–8, 192–4. Idem, Was ist Politik? (München: Piper, 1993), pp. 46–7, 101–23. See lectures 4 and 13. Kant, Critique of Judgement, Sections 22, 40. Hannah Arendt, ‘Some Questions of Moral Philosophy’, in Responsibility and Judgment (ed. Jerome Kohn; New York: Schocken, 2003), pp. 49–146 (143–6). Cf. Chapter 4, Section III. Kant develops this concept in the second part of his Critique, which is devoted to ‘teleological judgement’. Cf. Margaret Canovan, ‘Arendt’s Theory of Totalitarianism: A Reassessment’, in The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt (ed. Dana Villa; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 25–43 (28).

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progress prevented rather than facilitated judgement. For Arendt, the notion of progress is irreconcilable with the idea that particular historical figures can have exemplary validity.77 And this is why Arendt emphasizes even more strongly than Kant that a judge needs to operate from a fully autonomous and disengaged position: disengaged from human affairs and political events, and autonomous vis-à-vis the presumed course of history. Unless such an independent position is taken, the judge will be taken hostage – if not by what actually takes place in the realm of human affairs, then at least by ideological interpretations of these affairs. The only way, then, to preserve ourselves against the onslaught of action and idealism is to become a spectator: to ‘stand still and look back with the backward glance of the historian’.78 The contrast with Arendt’s earlier understanding of judgement is obvious. If initially to judge was to choose company in public, now it means to step back from public life. Whereas judgement was meant to be exercised in the world as well as for the sake of it, now it is to be exercised in detachment from the world (through presumably still for the sake of it). Indeed, it is ironic that the same Arendt who in earlier works expresses anxiety about the retreat from the world79 should now opt for a retreat into critical spectatorship.

Critical distance or obedience It lies beyond the scope of this chapter, of course, to discuss at length various factors that might account for the shift in Arendt’s understanding of judgement, though an interesting interpretation is offered by Ronald Beiner, who also featured in the previous chapter (Section III). Beiner argues that Arendt was increasingly intrigued by the radical spontaneity in action and, more importantly, came to see this spontaneity as a threat to freedom: only retrospective judgement could redeem this ‘impasse’.80 77

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‘It is against human dignity to believe in progress.’ Arendt, Lectures on Kant, p. 77. For Kant, however, it is exactly this idea of historical progress that allows for the reconciliation between the agent and the spectator: it provides a standard with which the spectator can discern meaning and significance in otherwise confusing events. Seeing what the present upheaval will ultimately lead to, the spectator can now anticipate that result in his day-to-day actions. Common sense and exemplary validity are also important for Kant, but these very standards are themselves subject to the inexorable laws of progress. Ibid., pp. 73–7. Ibid., p. 77. See also Postscriptum to Idem, The Life of the Mind, ‘Thinking’. Cf. Beiner, ‘Judging’, pp. 130–1. Cf. Arendt, ‘Humanity in Dark Times’. Beiner, ‘Judging’, pp. 117–18. Beiner compares Arendt’s later account of judgement with Nietzsche’s thoughts on the pacification of the will and ‘eternal return’, in which context he states that for Arendt ‘judgment has the function of anchoring man in a world that would otherwise be without meaning and existential reality: a world unjudged would have no human import to us’. Ibid., p. 152.

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More important than the reasons for Arendt’s shift in emphasis, however, is the way in which this shift highlights a contrast between the 1942 Sigtuna episode on the one hand, and Arendt’s understanding of politics on the other. What Bell and Bonhoeffer appear to be saying and doing during the Sigtuna meeting suggests a trajectory of thought and practice that moves in a direction almost opposite to the one implicit in Arendt’s philosophy of judgement. In Arendt’s writing on judgement we see a moving away from her earlier idea that judgement is exercised within the public realm, towards her recommendation that each should assert his or her own independent point of view. In the Sigtuna story, by contrast, we see friends willing to accept a share in the responsibility taken by the resistance to execute political judgement through violent means, yet whose ultimate stance is one of submission to judgement. The contrast becomes even starker when it is realized that the historical events that form the backdrop of the Sigtuna meeting are roughly the same as those that stimulated Arendt’s reflection on judgement. Arendt’s long-term response to political darkness seems to consist in a retreat from the life of action into a position of critical reflection. Bell and Bonhoeffer, however, realizing they were not in the position to exercise judgement themselves, felt nevertheless called to support whatever judgement might be given – human or divine – through concrete ‘works’ of repentance, forgiveness and reconciliation. In those extraordinarily ‘dark times’, Bell and Bonhoeffer chose to act. Arendt, however, came to believe that the only way of coming to terms with such times is to adopt the retrospective view of history. To take Arendt’s approach while interpreting the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer would be to suggest, perhaps, that their ‘company of judgement’ was in fact a sharing in spectatorship. Yet this, surely, would be to overlook the rich dynamics of friendship, as explored in this and previous chapters, for the company of judgement as envisaged by Arendt does not amount to the kind of fellowship enjoyed by those living and acting together. If anything, it resembles the civil yet reserved discourse between critics judging a piece of art. Bell and Bonhoeffer, however, instead of retreating in critical reflection on the ‘darkness’ surrounding them, chose engagement, seeking actively to influence their course for the good. Their choice must of course be seen in line with their Christian faith and vocation, which determine their story as a whole.81 Yet does it also mean that they forewent any political responsibility? That is to say: in seeking to submit to God’s judgements, did they abstain from 81

Cf. See also Chapters 2, 6 and 7.

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exercising political judgement in any possible sense? Or is it still possible to say, in line with what has been said earlier, that in accepting and anticipating God’s judgement – and aiming to act ‘upon’ it (e.g. in their support of the resistance) – the friends at least participated in the provision of judgement? In order to begin to answer these questions, it will be useful to return to O’Donovan’s account of judgement, and particularly his understanding of the relation between human and divine judgement. As was already mentioned in the previous chapter (Section II), a crucial assumption of O’Donovan’s political theology is that God’s judgement in the Paschal events of Christ’s death and resurrection has deep implications for the task of judgement in secular political society.82 Above all, God’s judgment in Christ makes ongoing human practices of judgement highly precarious, if not futile. For God’s judgement – simultaneously condemnatory and redemptive – reveals human beings as sinners indebted to God’s forgiveness. Before God, the appropriate human attitude and practice is repentance (and forgiveness towards one’s neighbour), not judgement. Condemned by our condemnation of God’s Anointed, and forgiven in the power of his resurrection, we have forfeited any right to sit in judgement over each other: ‘Judge not, that you not be judged’ (Mt. 7.1).83 Christians are above all called to practise solidarity with fellowsinners, even, or perhaps especially, with those suffering punishment for their offences.84 It was also mentioned earlier that, in line with a long tradition of Christian political thought, O’Donovan regards the secular political authorities as enjoying a ‘privileged exception to a general prohibition of judgment’.85 Political officers are not exempt from God’s judgement, nor are they somehow more capable of judgement than others. The only reason for the exception is that sin and injustice still demand a response, however imperfect and provisional, in the form of protection and vindication of the innocent, and restriction and punishment of the offender.86 Yet a key qualification remains that judgement is to be exercised and executed with merciful restraint – a qualification that O’Donovan claims has deeply influenced the political culture of Christendom.87 82 83 84

85 86

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O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 87. See also Chapter 4, Section II. Ibid., p. 86. Cf. Oliver O’Donovan, The Desire of the Nations: Rediscovering the Roots of Political Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 256. Idem, Ways of Judgment, p. 99. Cf. also Chapter 1, Section I. On the limited task of ‘the authorities’ (Rom. 13.1), see Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, pp. 240–4. Cf. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, pp. 88–100. Idem, Desire of the Nations, pp. 256–61.

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This eschatological perspective throws further light on the meaning of the ‘words and deeds’ of Bell and Bonhoeffer during the Sigtuna meeting, and its contrast with Arendt’s late account of judgement. We saw earlier that the friends, insofar as they performed acts of repentance and forgiveness, submitted to judgement instead of pronouncing it themselves. Now we can recognize their words and deeds as illustrations of how, according to O’Donovan, Christians ought to relate to judgement. If Bell and Bonhoeffer exercised judgement at all, they did so only indirectly: through deference to and anticipation of God’s judgement (whether or not expressed through the judgements of secular authorities), and through their willingness to suffer this judgement personally, if necessary.88 Thus Bell and Bonhoeffer can be seen as practising the obedience that O’Donovan regards as lying at the heart of the life of the church. This, together with the fact that repentance and forgiveness are key practices of the church (in the form of confession, penance and reconciliation), suggests that the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer – and their meeting at Sigtuna – must be interpreted within the wider context of the life of the church. This approach also offers a new perspective from which to explore the political dimension of their story. As was mentioned in the previous chapter, O’Donovan suggests that the church, while renouncing the seat of judgement, nevertheless has a share in divine judgement. In exploring what such ecclesial judgement might look like, we may also gain further insight in the political dimension of Bell and Bonhoeffer’s story. The discussion in the next chapter will therefore have an ecclesiological focus. In order to frame that discussion, however, I will offer in the remainder of this chapter a brief account of ecclesial judgement as presented by O’Donovan. 88

Behind this distinction between judgement ‘in’ repentance and forgiveness on the one hand, and the straightforwardly ‘judicial’ exercise of judgement, lies the issue of political representation. While repentance and forgiveness are primarily interpersonal practices, at home in contexts defined by mutuality and reciprocity, judgement is a public act performed on behalf of a community (cf.  Chapter  4, Section II). Arendt would broadly agree with this description, yet unlike O’Donovan (in Part II of The Ways of Judgment) she does not develop a ‘phenomenology’ of political representation that can account for the historical institutions and processes that mediate and facilitate the exercise of judgement in political society. The representative character of these institutions and processes, of course, does not lie solely in their non-reciprocal dynamics: judgements are not representative simply because they are exercised by a king or a president. But if, as O’Donovan maintains, all political judgement remains answerable to divine judgement, then the implication is that political authorities – however keen reciprocal relations with the public – are nevertheless to represent God vis-à-vis society. This, then, is the ultimate reason why for citizens the primary political duty is obedience, rather than putting forward opinions. See Oliver O’Donovan, ‘Response to Bernd Wannenwetsch’, in A Royal Priesthood? The Use of the Bible Ethically and Politically (ed. C. Bartholomew et al.; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2002), pp. 221–4 (224). Cf. Idem, Desire of the Nations, pp. 231–42.

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Beyond judgement In Part III of The Ways of Judgment, O’Donovan characterizes the church’s social existence as ‘life beyond judgment’.89 The church is to live out human life as already authorized and enabled by God’s redemptive judgement in Christ. The church lives ‘beyond’ judgement in as much as it lives in obedience and witnesses to what God has done in Christ. And precisely here lies the political significance of its existence. O’Donovan contrasts the church’s obedience with the judgements that continue to be pronounced by the judges and political representatives of the nations. While admittedly some authority has been left to them, pending the full arrival of the Kingdom of God, the authorities are prone to overstepping the limits of this task, rebelling against God and thereby (inadvertently) pronouncing judgement on themselves.90 For the church, then, to obey God’s judgement in Christ is to renounce the position of judge that political leaders still claim for themselves. Having received God’s definitive judgement in Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection, recognizing Christ as the true representative of humanity, Christians know that for the protection and integrity of human society no further judgements are needed – and are called to witness to this fact in the way they conduct their lives.91 Such abstention from judicial practice also means freedom from it. This freedom is not apolitical, however, as if the church chose to live in a judicial vacuum. It is rather freedom following and resulting from a judgement already pronounced, like the freedom experienced in political society whenever a moderately satisfactory and conclusive judgement has been pronounced. This freedom from judgement is freedom for something else, namely what judgement vindicates and restores and enables, namely participation in social life.92 And since Christians believe God’s judgement to be definitive, they have the freedom to learn to forego the demand for vindication when offended against.93 Renouncing judgement for itself, 89

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The title of Part III is ‘Life beyond Judgment: Communication’; cf. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, pp. 231–319. Ibid., pp. 231–3. Cf. Idem, Desire of the Nations, pp. 129–30, 136, 146–57. According to O’Donovan, the church’s obedience also contrasts with the judgements of ‘the public’, so highly prized by Kant and Arendt. The latter seems to pay heed to Jesus’ aforementioned warning against judgement, namely insofar as it challenges the judgements pronounced and enforced by political officers. Yet O’Donovan observes that this challenge easily becomes a ‘false echo’ of Jesus’ warning: ‘a hundred thousand voices call to their neighbors, “Judge not!”, and then . . . judge!’ Idem, Ways of Judgment, p. 234. This account of ‘the public’ (drawing on Kierkegaard’s critique) implicitly challenges Kant’s and Arendt’s ideal of the judging public: ‘Never assembled, never making policy, never following through on any lead that it itself gives, it is inconsistent in its judgments and knows no principle of action except envy.’ Ibid., pp. 234–5. Cf. Idem, Desire of the Nations, p. 151. O’Donovan also uses the concept of ‘communication’; see Idem, Ways of Judgment, pp. 242–60. Cf. Mt. 5.38–48; 18.21–35 (parable of the Unforgiving Servant).

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then, the church lives as a community whose life is already governed by God’s judgement. Indeed, the church is a political community insofar as it challenges conventional rule in human society more generally, and particularly its ongoing dependence on and exercise of judgement.94 Furthermore, to obey judgement is to appropriate it, or even to participate in its exercise. As O’Donovan puts it, to obey is to perform ‘an act of judgment upon an act of judgment’.95 Obedience by definition requires that one relinquish the position of judge, yet it does not necessarily involve coercion. An unrepentant offender, of course, ‘obeys’ only insofar as it is enforced upon her in the form of punishment. Yet apart from that, to give up the right to judge is not in itself to become a mere ‘object’ of judgement. Genuine obedience is based on understanding: recognition of the practical avenues that have been barred, as well as a grasp of the avenues opened up and encouraged. Obedience thus involves understanding and appropriation of what is purposed in judgement, appropriating and anticipating these in one’s undertakings. This obedience is part of the freedom mentioned earlier: to obey is to enter a realm of practical possibilities, which has been ‘opened up’ by judgement.96 Jesus’ advice to ‘judge for yourselves’ (Lk. 12.57) can be seen as pointing in the same direction. O’Donovan comments: ‘When we judge for ourselves, we judge that the good that God by his own judgment has set before us to do is now open for us to do.’97 For the church to live ‘beyond judgement’ is to practise such free, discerning obedience: to participate in God’s of judgement, through the discerning appropriation and application of it. As with the example of friendship in politically dark times, the emphasis here lies on affirmation of what is good rather than condemnation of wrong. This may also be the kind of judgement that St Paul has in mind when he suggested that ‘the saints will judge the world’ (1 Cor. 6.2).98 The church, the community of saints, learns to judge ‘for itself ’ through practices such as forgiveness, peaceableness and hospitality. In so doing the church enters a political realm beyond the strictures and limitations of secular judgement, and 94 95 96

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Cf. Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, pp. 261–2. O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 236. Cf. Idem, Resurrection and Moral Order (Leicester: Apollos, 1994), pp. 121–39. Idem, Ways of Judgment, pp. 52–5. Idem, Ways of Judgment, p. 236. Arendt speaks of the responsibility to judge ‘by’ oneself, in the context of living under totalitarian regimes. Yet such judgement consists precisely in refraining from action. See Hannah Arendt, ‘Personal Responsibility Under Dictatorship’, in Responsibility and Judgment (ed. Jerome Kohn; New York: Schocken, 2003), pp. 17–48 (44–5, 47). See also Idem, ‘Thinking and Moral Considerations’, in Ibid., pp. 180–9. The context clearly suggests that what St Paul has in mind is not judgement according to worldly patterns, as in punishment or, worse, in taking one’s neighbour to court, but rather choosing to ‘suffer wrong’ (v. 7). Cf. also 1 Cor. 11.31–2.

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yet begins to fulfil, through these practices, the very righteousness that secular judgement is ultimately (if perhaps unwittingly) aiming for. Far from being an apolitical community, the church places itself under a different kind of rule – the ‘rule of Christ’99 – inviting and enabling the world to do likewise. This characterization of the life of the church offers a framework for further interpretation of the Sigtuna story, and of friendship more generally. ‘Obedient judgement’ – the mark of the church’s political existence – also sums up the interaction between Bell and Bonhoeffer at Sigtuna. The friends both obeyed and participated in what they believed to be God’s judgement: they first of all accepted it in their repentance and forgiveness, but then also appropriated it in conciliatory ‘works’ – not least through their costly support of the German resistance. Rather than refraining from judgement altogether, they judged ‘for themselves’, discerning and entering a realm of action opened up by divine judgement. This line of interpretation affirms what was suggested earlier, namely that this example of friendly interaction was anything but apolitical. Indeed, Bell and Bonhoeffer’s example of ‘obedient judgement’ may well point to a new, specifically ecclesiological realm in which friendship’s ‘parapolitics’ manifests itself.100 It is in view of this final suggestion that the discussion in the next chapter will turn to friendship as shaped by Christian discipleship, in the context of the life of the church.

99 100

Cf. Col. 3.15. Cf. Chapters 1 (Section II) and 2 (Section III).

6

Ecclesial Judgement

The previous chapter concluded with the suggestion that for the church to renounce the position of judge is not necessarily to exist as an apolitical community, or indeed live without judgement altogether. This chapter explores in more detail how the church participates in God’s judgement, and particularly the role friendship might play in this. It will first focus on Jesus’ gift of friendship to his disciples, as described in John 15, and in particular the order of love and service implied in that gift, as contrasted with the disciples’ political aspirations (Section I). Section II will explore the ecclesiological implications of this gift through a commentary on Romans 12, focusing in particular on St Paul’s suggestion that the church – the body of Christ – receives judgement through practices of mutual service. The final section will pull these insights together, drawing out implications for friendship in the context of Christian discipleship – and the friendship between Bell and Bonhoeffer in particular.

I  Jesus’ gift of friendship (Jn 15) Towards the end of the previous chapter it was suggested that the church obeys God’s judgement by discerning and living out the practical possibilities ‘opened up’ by that judgement. Furthermore, in so doing the church does not enter an apolitical realm, but rather places itself under the rule of Christ. This section will explore the particular character of this rule by looking at the order that applies in the relationship between Jesus and his disciples – as hinted at in John 15, and in corresponding synoptic passages. The fact that in John 15 Jesus addresses his disciples as ‘friends’ is of course particularly interesting in the context of this study, and will help in interpreting the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer (including the Sigtuna episode) as one that highlights the church’s political existence.

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Politics in Friendship

The wider context of Jesus’ addressing his disciples, in John 15, is the section of the Gospel sometimes referred to as the Farewell Speech (Jn 13–16), presented as held both during and immediately after Jesus’ last supper with his disciples. More specifically, Jesus’ comments on friendship are to be heard in relation to the ‘new commandment’ he has given to his disciples: ‘A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another’ (Jn 13.34). As Jesus gives this command, he has already shown the disciples its meaning in a most poignant way: during the meal he had knelt down to wash their feet, taking on himself the role of servant (Jn 13.1–20). After he had finished, he also explained the meaning of his acts, in case the disciples had missed the point: if even their master went down on his knees to wash their feet, then surely they ought to do the same (vv. 12–16). Before looking at John 15 in more detail, it will be useful to consider a few passages in the synoptic gospels that bear close thematic resemblance to aspects of the Farewell Speech. These synoptic passages speak of disciples’ anxieties concerning who among them is the greatest, or ‘worthy’ to rule in God’s Kingdom. Paying attention to Jesus’ response to his disciples’ misgivings will help in tracing the political dimension of Jesus’ words in John 13 and 15.

Who is the greatest? The synoptic gospels suggest that the disciples’ status anxieties grow as the time of Jesus’ suffering draws near. In Matthew 18, Mark 9 and Luke 9 we find the disciples quarrelling about matters of seniority. In Matthew, Jesus’ response is that unless they become like children, they will not enter the kingdom of heaven (Mt. 18.3); in Luke he tells them that the least among them is ‘great’ (Lk. 9.48); and in Mark that in order to be first, one should be ‘last of all and servant of all’ (Mk 9.35).1 This reference to service (echoing Jesus’ personal example in John 13) is also found in Jesus’ response to a similar quarrel, reported in Matthew 20 and Mark 10. This time it is James and John, or rather their mother on their behalf, who requests that they receive seats of honour in Jesus’ kingdom. What becomes more explicit here is the political character of the disciples’ aspiration: they desire to sit on thrones. In response to the request (and the outrage of the other disciples) Jesus tells them that in order to be great, or the first, they must become servants and slaves, reminding them that even the Son of Man ‘came not to be served but to serve’ (Mt. 20.28; Mk 10.45). Jesus does not fail to pick up on 1

See also Mt. 23.11.

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the political issue involved: he points out that the rulers of the Gentiles ‘lord it over them, and their great ones exercise authority over them,’ adding that ‘it shall not be so among you’ (Mt. 20.25–6; Mk 10.42–3).2 These passages in the synoptic gospels help highlight the political dimension of the ‘new commandment’ demonstrated and explained by Jesus in John 13 and 15. This is particularly true of a passage in Luke 22 where Jesus’ rebuke is articulated in a way that echoes Jesus’ words in John 13 in a striking way. The relevant passage (Lk. 22.24–30) is very similar to those in Matthew 20 and Mark 10 referred to earlier: the disciples quarrel about which of them is the greatest, and Jesus responds by reversing the order of seniority, again in contrast to the political order of the Gentiles. In addition, however, Luke places this episode in the context of the Last Supper (Lk. 22.7–23) – the same meal during which, in John 13, Jesus washes his disciples’ feet. Accordingly, Jesus’ response to his disciples’ quarrelling in Luke 22 reflects the context that frames Jesus’ message in John 13: ‘For who is the greater, one who reclines at table or one who serves? Is it not the one who reclines at table? But I am among you as the one who serves’ (Lk. 22.27). The reason Jesus talks about servants waiting on guests, of course, is that at this point he and the disciples are having a meal together. In John 13, however, he illustrates the point by washing their feet, thus demonstrating that he is indeed among them ‘as the one who serves’. And he uses the situation to reformulate his ‘new commandment’: ‘If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet’ (Jn 13.14). Some of the synoptic passages suggest, however, that the political significance of Jesus’ ‘new commandment’ does not lie merely in its criticism (if not rejection) of the rule of Gentile lords. In Matthew 20 and Mark 10 Jesus tells James and John that they do not know what they are asking: ‘Are you able to drink the cup that I [am to] drink?’ (Mt. 20.22; Mk 10.38). Yet he continues by affirming that they will drink this cup with him. As for the special seats they requested, he says that these are not his to give: to sit at his right or left hand is ‘for those for whom it has been prepared [by my Father]’ (Mt. 20.23; Mk 10.40). In other words, Jesus does not rule out what James and John have asked for. In Luke 22, in fact, Jesus admits that his disciples have in fact stayed with him in his trials (v. 28). And then, surprisingly, he continues as follows: ‘I assign to you, as my Father assigned to me, a kingdom, that you may eat and drink at my table in my kingdom and sit

2

‘The world rules, Christians serve.’ Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship (ed. Wayne Whitson Floyd Jr; trans. Martin Kuske and Ise Tödt; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 4, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), p. 240.

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on thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel’ (vv. 29–30).3 Thus Jesus is here even more generous in meeting the disciples’ wishes: not only will they sit on royal thrones, but they will judge the tribes of Israel. Now this may appear to conflict with Jesus’ earlier admonition, namely that the disciples were not to desire the rule that the Gentile rulers exercise. Presumably the thrones of judgement Jesus has in mind are different from those occupied by the rulers of the nations – an assumption also suggested by St Paul in his comment that ‘the saints will rule the world’ (1 Cor. 6.2), referred to earlier.4 The kingdom Jesus is referring to, it seems, is neither an affirmation nor a complete disruption of political rule as we know it. In order to establish exactly how this rule is different, it will be useful to pay closer attention to what Jesus says about his ‘new commandment’ in John 13, and particularly the transformation of friendship as envisaged by this commandment (Jn 15).

Jesus’ friendship In John 13.34 Jesus commands his disciples to love each other. But why is this a new commandment – isn’t it identical to the second part of the ‘great commandment’?5 The novelty of Jesus’ command can be identified with a number of aspects, including the fact that the command is now related to the command Jesus receives from the Father. The novelty lies also in the added qualification: ‘just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another’.6 For the disciples, the challenge of this qualification is impossible to overlook, following the embarrassing experience of having their feet washed by their master. Indeed, in verse 14 Jesus tells them explicitly to ‘wash one another’s feet’. The disciples, then, are not to love each other merely in the sense of being benevolently disposed to each other; they are to follow Jesus in loving each other ‘to the end’ (v. 1), by becoming each other’s servants, and quite literally getting down on their knees for each other. This is not a kind of love that comes naturally – which is perhaps why Jesus repeatedly speaks of a commandment.7 This is love as it exists primarily between the Father and the Son; one can only love in this way 3 4 5 6

7

Cf. Mt. 19.28. Cf. Chapter 5, Section III. Cf. Lev. 19.18; Mt. 22.34–40. See, for example, Jn 12.49–50; 15.10. Cf. C. K. Barrett, The Gospel according to St John: An Introduction with Commentary and Notes on the Greek Text (2nd edn, London: SPCK, 1978), pp. 451–2, 476. See Jn 13.34; 15.12, 17. Cf. Rudolf Schnackenburg, The Gospel According to St John: Commentary on Chapters 13–21 (Herder’s Theological Commentary of the New Testament, vol. 3, London: Burns & Oates, 1982), p. 53.

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by ‘abiding in’ Jesus, who first loved his disciples with the love he himself had received from the Father.8 In John 15, however, Jesus speaks in a slightly different register, referring to his disciples as his friends (vv. 12–17). If up to this point the Greek verb ἀgapάw (‘to love’), and the related noun ἀgάph took central stage, now Jesus calls his disciples jίloi (‘friends’): ‘You are my friends if you do what I command you’ (v.  14). And again, in verse 15: ‘I have called you friends’ (ὑmᾶV dὲ eἴrhka jίlouV).9 Given the strongly sacrificial, ‘kenotic’ character of the love that Jesus asks of his disciples, it is perhaps surprising that he should use the language of friendship: surely love that requires one to become someone’s servant has little to do with friendship? There is time-honoured tradition that distinguishes very strongly between friendship and love, ‘philia’ and ‘agape’.10 Sometimes the two are even presented as opposites: philia, deemed to be Greek (or broadly classical) in origin, is believed to consist in preferential love, seeking gratification of desire and reciprocation of love; agape, by contrast, is thought to be a reflection of God’s love, seeking no gratification or reciprocation, as manifested supremely in Christ’s sacrifice. Philia, then, is ultimately self-seeking, while agape is selfgiving.11 Yet here, in John 15, Jesus urges his disciples to ‘love’ (ἀgapᾶte, v. 12), immediately before calling them his ‘friends’ (jίloi, vv. 14–15). In other words, we find the supposedly ‘Greek’ concept of philia in what is arguably a central piece of dominical teaching on agape. One may therefore assume that in Jesus’ teaching, love and friendship are complementary, or mutually explanatory, rather than mutually exclusive.12 Nevertheless, compared to Jesus’ Farewell Speech as a whole, these verses in chapter 15 do appear to have a slightly different emphasis. In John 15.15 Jesus   8   9

10

11

12

Jn 14.21; 15.1–11. For a useful survey of how this passage is treated in commentaries and other literature, see Steve Summers, Friendship: Exploring its Implications for the Church in Postmodernity (ed. Gerard Mannion; Ecclesiological Investigations, vol. 7, London: T&T Clark, 2009), pp. 11–16. See, for example, Anders Nygren, Agape and Eros (trans. Philip S. Watson; London: SPCK, 1957); C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves (London: HarperCollins, 2002). Gilbert Meilaender, Friendship: A Study in Theological Ethics (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981). Cf. Summers, Friendship, pp. 55–6, 125. See also Guido de Graaff, ‘Friendship’, in Living Witness: Explorations in missional ethics (ed. Andy Draycott and Jonathan Rowe; Nottingham: Apollos, 2012), pp. 178–97 (187–91). Such distinctions are made most rigorously (and notoriously) by Anders Nygren. According to him, friendship is driven by self-seeking desire, or Eros, and has therefore nothing to do with Christian love; see Nygren, Agape and Eros, pp. 181–3, 186. More recently, scholars have committed themselves to the opposite programme of interpreting Christian love (or ‘charity’) in terms of friendship. See Paul Wadell, Friendship and the Moral Life (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1989). E. D. H. Carmichael, Friendship: Interpreting Christian Love (London: T&T Clark, 2004). Joel Backström, The Fear of Openness: An Essay on Friendship and the Roots of Morality (Åbo: Åbo Akademi University Press, 2007). ΦίloV is used throughout the New Testament; cf. Summers, Friendship, p. 10.

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says: ‘No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you.’ Thus it might appear as if Jesus is retreating somewhat from his previous demand that the disciples are to become servants to each other. However, what needs to be borne in mind is that here, in verse 15, Jesus is speaking of ‘slaves’ (doύloi) rather than ‘servants’ (diάkonoi); the specific point he wants to make does not concern the extent to which the disciples are supposed to serve, but rather the kind of relationship they have with their master. ‘[T]he servant [doύloV] does not know what his master is doing.’ Yet, unlike slaves, the disciples will know their master intimately, and enjoy real fellowship with him.13 To become friends of Jesus does not mean to cease serving him (and others), but rather to be drawn into relationship with him – and indeed relationship with the Father – based on understanding.14 Indeed, sharing in the fellowship between the Father and the Son directly correlates with obeying Jesus’ commandment to love and serve: ‘Whoever has my commandments and keeps them, he it is who loves me. And he who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I will love him and manifest myself to him’ (14.21). Just as the Master himself is among them as one who serves, so should his friends be. It is not at all surprising, then, that immediately prior to addressing his disciples as his friends Jesus reiterates his ‘new commandment’ (15.12). Jesus’ commandment to love in the mode of servants is the basis of his friendship with his disciples. It was his friends whose feet he washed – and the same friends are now told to do likewise.

Self-sacrifice as temptation This connection between friendship and service is confirmed in John 15.13, where Jesus suggests self-sacrifice as an ultimate expression of friendship: ‘Greater 13

14

By contrast, several of the aforementioned synoptic passages (where Jesus urges his disciples to serve) use diάkonoV (‘servant’) and the related verb diakonέw (exceptions are Mt. 20.27 and Mk 10.44). And when in Jn 13.16 Jesus does use doύloV (‘slave’), this is in the context of an example used to make the specific point that someone of lower rank (a slave or a messenger) is not greater than his superior, and should therefore follow his example (vv. 15–16). Cf. Barrett, St John, p. 477. Summers, Friendship, pp. 17–18. The notion of being drawn into Jesus’ relationship with the Father invites the suggestion that, through friendship with Jesus, one can also become friends of the Father. Prominent among those drawing this conclusion is Thomas Aquinas, who in developing it makes extensive use of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Books VIII and IX. Cf. Summers, Friendship, pp. 86–93. Daniel Schwartz, Aquinas on Friendship (Oxford Philosophical Monographs, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007). In Exod. 33.11 it is said that ‘the Lord used to speak to Moses face to face, as a man speaks to his friend [‫’]רעהו‬. And Jas 2.23 says of Abraham that ‘he was called a friend of God’ (jίloV qeoῦ ἐklήqh), which in turn is a reference to Isa. 41.8. See also Schnackenburg, St John (3), p. 111. David Konstan, ‘Friendship, Frankness and Flattery’, in Friendship, Flattery, and Frankness of Speech (ed. John T. Fitzgerald; Leiden: Brill, 1996), pp. 7–19 (15).

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love has no one than this, that someone lays down his life for his friends.’ Unmistakably alluding to his own sacrifice, Jesus suggests that in befriending his disciples he not only places ‘giving’ before ‘receiving’, but is ready to give his very own self. And Jesus’ disciples are to follow his example of self-sacrifice. For the new commandment (which Jesus repeats here immediately before his words on the greatest love) clearly states: ‘This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.’15 The example the disciples are to follow is an example, not just of friendship, but of friendship expressed in ultimate selfsacrifice. Any hopes for comfortable companionship based on mutual pleasure or benefit are dashed.16 What should not be overlooked, however, is that Jesus is primarily referring here to his own sacrifice. Moreover, the Paschal events, as narrated in chapters 18–20 (as well as in the synoptic gospels), suggest that Jesus’ example of friendship is inimitable. Indeed, Jesus had told Peter as much: ‘Where I am going you cannot follow me now, but you will follow afterwards’ (Jn 13.36). And when Peter in response offers to lay down his life for him, Jesus replies by foretelling Peter’s threefold denial (vv. 37–8).17 This exchange should already warn against the temptation to seek to repeat or emulate Jesus’ sacrifice – which, theologically speaking, would be to follow him not only in obedience ‘to the point of death, even death on a cross’ (Phil. 2.6), but also in the kenosis and sacrifice of God’s Son. When it comes to this act of sacrifice, made ‘once for all’ (Heb. 9.12, 26), imitation, rather than being a repetition of the act, can only be a ‘following after’. This qualification does not, however, diminish the challenge of Jesus’ example – as if the weakness of the disciples (exemplified in Peter’s denial) would excuse them of obeying Jesus’ commandment. The point is not whether Jesus’ disciples are called to follow his example, or to what extent; Jesus’ words leave little doubt about both. The crucial question is rather on which basis the disciples are to follow. It is true that in John 15.12–17 the disciples are called to reciprocate Jesus’ friendship, and extend it among themselves. Yet any reciprocation on their part can only be a response to friendship initiated by Jesus: it is Jesus who first draws them into friendship, now that he is revealing to them what he has heard from the Father (v. 15). Similarly, in the preceding verses (vv. 1–11) Jesus tells his disciples they cannot obey his commandment unless they ‘abide’ in his love (v. 9), and indeed abide in himself: ‘I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit’ (v. 5a–b); and he adds, 15 16 17

Cf. Jn 13.34. Cf. Aristotle’s typology of friendship in NE VIII 3; cf. Chapter 3, Section I. Cf. Jn 18.12–27.

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as if to drive home the point: ‘apart from me you can do nothing’ (v. 5c). In the light of these verses, it becomes clear that the friendship to which the disciples are called can only be a ‘fruit’ of Jesus’ friendship. His friendship is not just an example, but the very source from which the disciples must draw in order to respond to Jesus’ offer of friendship – like a root allowing branches (or new grafts) to bear fruit. Jesus uses similar imagery to clarify the origin of their friendship: ‘You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit’ (v. 16). Here Jesus points to a specific ‘order of choice’ that underlies his friendship with the disciples: he alone is the initiator of this friendship. It is not difficult to see how this contrasts with the ‘Ciceronian logic’ discussed in Chapter 1 (Section III). According to that logic (at least in its pure form), the subject – the ‘I’ – is and should remain in charge of establishing and monitoring his friendships, co-opting some as friends while excluding or disposing of others. Yet Jesus’ words suggest a very different logic: ‘You did not choose me, but I chose you’ (v. 16). To follow Jesus is to surrender any prerogative in choosing friends, or even people for whom to lay down one’s life. This friendship is initiated solely by Jesus’ initiative – not by the aspirations of the disciples, sacrificial or not.18 Thus the imagery of the vine and the branches is crucial: however sacrificial the disciples’ acts of friendship might be, these are still a response, governed by a prior relationship established by their master. And, paradoxically, at the basis of response lies a gift that cannot be returned: Jesus’ unprecedented and unique sacrifice for his friends.19 This sets limits to any sacrificial aspirations on the part of the disciples: instead of seeking to practise some ideal of ‘sacrificial friendship’, they are called to abide in Jesus and his unique gift of friendship. This may well imply self-sacrifice, but must be recognizable as ‘fruit’ of the love of him who first chose them, and sacrificed his life for them. As an ideal, isolated from Jesus’ specific example, sacrificial friendship may indeed be as self-centred as, say, the crudest form of ‘utility friendship’. A ‘selfcentred’ person is not necessarily ‘selfish’, yet a self-centred friend has already made up her mind about what is pleasant, good, worthy or indeed ‘sacrificial’ – without allowing others to reveal to her something about their meaning. The 18

19

In seeking to apply Jesus’ words, therefore, it is not enough merely to identify some ‘implications’ for our practices of friendship. Jesus does not talk about ‘friendship’ (jilίa), but addresses himself to particular friends (jίloi). Their status of friends is contingent upon his calling them so (vv. 14–15). As Paul Wadell observes, ‘understanding friendship requires understanding the narrative or story in which it is situated and according to which it is explained’. Wadell, Friendship, p. 72. Cf. Schnackenburg, St John (3), p. 111.

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same person will merely ‘use’ her friends: not necessarily in a conventionally ‘instrumental’ sense (using the relationship as a means for obtaining certain benefits), but rather in the sense of using friends as mere ‘objects’ of beneficence and self-sacrifice. Thus, in The Four Loves (1960), C. S. Lewis introduces the sad (imaginary) example of Mrs Fidget, manipulating her family with her relentless exercises in domestic self-sacrifice. Her need to sacrifice herself, Lewis explains, meant that her family ‘did things for her to help her to do things for them which they didn’t want done’.20 Sinful human beings are capable of using sacrifice as a cover for keeping others and their love at bay. It is partly against this background that Gilbert Meilaender argues for a reconciliation between philia and agape, between the reciprocal and nonreciprocal aspects of love.21 Friendship, rather than undermining agape, ‘recognizes this truth about our nature: that we need not only give ourselves in love but also to receive love in return’.22 Meilaender admits there remains tension between the two: short of their future perfect union in the Kingdom of God, each functions as a salutary counterweight to the other.23 Yet this notion of balancing philia and agape might also detract from the particular challenge of John 15. This challenge does not primarily concern the right ‘measure’ in which love should be both sacrificial and reciprocal, but rather the specific sort of sacrifice and/or reciprocity involved. Thus, in Lewis’s example, Mrs Fidget’s service is not sacrificial in a loving sense, driven as it is by a need to make others indebted to herself. Conversely, friendship’s reciprocity is justified not because it ‘compensates’ for the supposedly dispassionate nature of agape, but insofar as it is an expression of communion.24 Reciprocity and self-sacrifice, then, can both be either self-centred or other-seeking. Both can be expressions of either of false ideals of love and friendship, or of genuine fellowship. The significance of John 15 is that it cuts off the former and points towards the latter.25 Thus, if one were to glean from John 15 a key principle for a Christian friendship ethic, it is would not be ‘self-sacrifice’ as such but rather the fact that Jesus comes as the unsolicited Friend, setting the terms for our response. As 20 21 22 23

24

25

Lewis, The Four Loves, p. 61. See Meilaender, Friendship, pp. 36–67. Ibid., p. 41. ‘[F]riendship which lacks permanence [due to its preferential and reciprocal character] seems less than perfect. . . . Yet, a love which lacks [the] marks of philia – its deep intimacy, mutuality, and preference – seems too impersonal and cold to satisfy the needs of our nature.’ Ibid., p. 65. Cf. Backström, Fear of Openness, pp. 55–64. Paul D. O’Callaghan, The Feast of Friendship (Wichita, KS: Eighth Day Press, 2002), pp. 15–27. De Graaff, ‘Friendship’, pp. 187–95.

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Hans Reinders puts it, ‘we have to learn how to receive God’s friendship’.26 It is not easy to accept this gift: Peter first refused it, not allowing Jesus to wash his feet (Jn 13.6–11). It is difficult to surrender to someone who chose us, rather than we him, and robs us of our prerogative in loving and befriending. This, then, might be the true novelty of Jesus’ commandment.

Service among Jesus’ friends The friendship that Jesus gives to his disciples also has implications for the way they relate to each other: ‘you are my friends if you do what I command you’ (Jn 15.14); ‘this is my commandment, that you love one another’ (v. 12). For the disciples, to obey Jesus’ commandment is also to befriend each other. And if Jesus’ gift of friendship limits aspirations of self-sacrifice among the recipients of that gift, then it follows that the relationships between those recipients, too, are governed by that gift. The fellowship they have with each other is part of the ‘fruit’ they are to bear, drawing from the ‘root’ that is Jesus. It is Jesus who now also gives them to each other, as friends. They receive each other in and with Jesus’ gift of friendship – as friends they have not chosen themselves. C. S. Lewis comments: ‘Christ, who said to the disciples “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you,” can truly say to every group of Christian friends “You have not chosen one another but I have chosen you for one another.”’27 That the friends of Jesus, instead of choosing each other, are given to each other, has also implications for the way they serve each other. Those who receive Jesus’ gift of friendship, alongside me, are as much challenged by it as I am; just as we are given to each other, we must also lean to accept each other’s service. Any aspirations of self-sacrifice on my part are challenged not only by Jesus’ unsolicited sacrifice, but subsequently also by the unsolicited service from other friends – from those friends I did not choose.28 Again, any ideal of ‘sacrificial friendship’ will fail to do justice to Jesus’ gift of friendship: not only because the master has already gone before in laying down his life (thereby limiting as well as enabling his disciple’s response), but now also because he asks his friends 26

27 28

Hans S. Reinders, Receiving the Gift of Friendship: Profound Disability, Theological Anthropology, and Ethics (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), p. 310. Reinder’s specific concern here, however, is how to receive the profoundly disabled as friends. Lewis, The Four Loves, p. 108. Cf. Jn 13.20. Cf. Stanley Hauerwas and Charles Pinches, Christians among the Virtues: Theological Conversations with Ancient and Modern Ethics (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), pp. 43–51. Reinders writes: ‘To know how to receive the gift of God’s friendship is to know how to receive the gift of God’s friends.’ Reinders, The Gift of Friendship, p. 374.

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to accept such acts from each other. It is no longer appropriate, then, merely to search for appropriate recipients of one’s generosity.29 Indeed, the particular challenge for Jesus’ disciples, all too aware of their own weaknesses, is to learn to accept imperfect service (from each other), as well as Jesus’ perfect sacrifice. If their service is to be real ‘fruit’ of Jesus’ friendship (Jn 15.16), it must welcome the former as much as the latter.30 They are to receive each other as those whom Jesus himself ‘appointed’ (v. 16): as friends who have been given responsibility for each other. To receive Jesus’ gift of friendship, then, is to resist the temptation of seeking to be a benefactor while staving off unsolicited service. Challenging as this may be, in John 15 Jesus invites his disciples fully to depend on him while seeking to obey his commandment. ‘Abiding’ in their master, they are set free to submit to the fallible service of his and their friends – where otherwise they might be tempted to shield themselves against disappointments. Jesus’ friendship thus fulfils an ancient longing for trust and frankness in friendship.31 Before moving on to an ecclesial parallel of this friendship dynamic in Romans 12 (Section II), it will be useful to summarize the specifically political implications of this dynamic. John 15.12–17, in the wider context of chapters 13 and 15, points to a certain ‘order’ of befriending and serving that is implied in and governed by Jesus’ gift of friendship. Instead of being ‘in charge’ of whom they befriend and serve (and how), the disciples have to learn to enter a pattern of fellowship already established for them, including the dynamic of service that welcomes the service of others. To use more explicitly political language: in receiving and accepting Jesus’ friendship, the disciples give up any position of judgement – particularly judgement in its affirmative sense. For they have to surrender any prerogative to establish, for themselves as well as their friends, 29 30

31

Cf. the lawyer’s misguided question, ‘And who is my neighbour?’ (Lk. 10.29). Even in this respect the disciples can learn from their master. In Luke 7 a woman known as a ‘sinner’ comes to Jesus who is reclining at a dinner party, and begins to wash his feet with her tears, wipes them with her hair and kisses them, before anointing them with ointment. Yet while the dinner host condemns the woman for her embarrassing behaviour, Jesus accepts her service (Lk. 7.36–50). Indeed, Jesus not only needs but seeks his friends’ support: when Jesus and his disciples are in Gethsemane, Jesus withdraws with Peter, John and James in order to pray. Jesus asks them to ‘watch with’ him. When after having wrestled in prayer he finds them asleep, he asks Peter despairingly: ‘could you not watch [with me] one hour?’ (Mt. 26.36–46; Mk 14.32–42). Cf. second stanza of Bonhoeffer’s poem ‘Christians and Pagans’ (Christen und Heiden) in Bernd Wannenwetsch (ed.), Who Am I? Bonhoeffer’s Theology through his Poetry (London: T&T Clark, 2009), pp. 176–7. Cf. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 1157a20–5 (VIII 4). Cicero, De Amicitia xviii/65–6, xxiv–xxv/ 88–96. O’Callaghan, Feast of Friendship, pp. 18–20. Backström, Fear of Openness. The following lines of Bonhoeffer’s poem ‘The Friend’ (Der Freund) might be read in this light as well: ‘Even under severe pressure/and strong rebuke/he willingly submits./Not by command, nor by alien laws and doctrines,/but by good and earnest counsel,/which liberates,/the mature man seeks/from the true friend.’ Wannenwetsch (ed.), Who Am I?, pp. 92–9. See also Chapter 7, Section II.

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what is good, useful, worthwhile and so forth. Going back to the discussion in Chapter 5 (Section III), one might recognize this dynamic of mutual service as fleshing out a key aspect of ‘life beyond judgement’. Accepting Jesus as their only true and perfect ‘judgement’, the disciples therefore can no longer regard themselves as their friends’ ‘benefactors’. And this, of course, stands in sharp contrast with the habits of human rulers: ‘The kings of the Gentiles exercise lordship over them, and those in authority over them are called benefactors’ (Lk. 22.25). In other words, if their self-sacrificial practice is such that it does not welcome the (imperfect) service of those appointed to them, then they behave in essentially the same manner as autocratic rulers – tyrants wrapping themselves in the cloak of ‘beneficence’.

II  Mutual submission in service (Rom. 12) The ‘order’ of befriending and serving that emerges from John 13 and 15 does not stand alone, but is part of the common life to which Jesus calls and invites his disciples. As such, it might be expected to be part of the common life of later generations of disciples – that is, the church. This much is indeed suggested in Romans 12, where St Paul (as in 1 Cor. 12) describes the church as the ‘body of Christ’, with the members of the body called to serve each other through the various gifts and ministries given to them. To turn to Pauline ‘ecclesiology’, and away from the Gospel of John, is to turn away from the perspective of Jesus’ first disciples, towards the perspective of subsequent and wider circles of followers. While John refers to ‘Jesus’, ‘friendship’ and ‘disciples’, Paul speaks of ‘Christ’, ‘body’ and ‘members’. In the latter case the context is the church, the community of disciples after the outpouring of the Spirit at Pentecost; in the former case the context is fellowship with Jesus before that event, even before Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection. Not only do we find different types of discourse, but from a canonical point of view these passages represent different moments in the history of God’s people. One might ask whether it is right to assume a continuum between the conversations in John 13–16 and Paul’s letter to the church of Rome, or to consider the Last Supper as the beginning of the church, rather than, say, the events at Pentecost. Due caution, however, should not detract from the fact that the New Testament itself assumes continuity. In Matthew, for example, new generations of disciples are identified as those who will be baptized (Mt. 28.19). Conversely, in Acts the term ‘disciple’ is used to denote the first Christians – members of the church

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in Antioch (Acts 11.26). This clearly suggests that the community of the early church is the continuation of Jesus’ fellowship with his disciples.32 To turn from John 15 towards Romans 12, then, is to turn from the church’s ‘embryonic’ phase towards the church in its ‘infancy’.

Discernment The twelfth chapter of Paul’s letter to the Romans begins with the following exhortation: ‘I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship’ (v. 1). With this reference to God’s mercies, Paul recalls his argument thus far in chapters 9–11, and particularly God’s mysterious and wonderful ways with both Jews and Gentiles – ‘mercies’ that prompted an outburst of praise from Paul at the very end of chapter 11.33 The sacrifice Paul asks of the Roman Christians is likewise to be a response to God’s wondrous works. In later verses (vv. 3–8) this sacrifice is further explained in terms of how the members of the ‘one body’ (ἓn sῶmά, v. 5) are to serve each other. The body imagery in verses 4–5 can be seen to elaborate on the Romans’ sacrifice of their ‘bodies’ (sώmata) in verse 1. Bernd Wannenwetsch puts it as follows: ‘the true worship that Paul invokes is the offering of the body (the church) through the communal offering of the individual bodies to become one body in mutual service’.34 The following image emerges: the members do not simply fuse into a single body, nor literally offer a single sacrifice together; instead, they offer themselves (their ‘bodies’) to each other as they devote themselves to mutual service, and in that respect also form the single body referred to in later verses. This also explains why Paul speaks of a living sacrifice – which is a slightly odd expression given the fact that literal sacrifices are burnt up and consumed. This sacrifice is one that is offered continuously. In Wannenwetsch’s words, it is ‘a matter of the corporate life of the body of Christ’.35 Before enumerating the various gifts and ministries with which the Romans are to serve each other, Paul underlines and elaborates in verse 2 the 32

33

34

35

Cf. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Sanctorum Communio (ed. Clifford J. Green; trans. Reinhard Kraus and Nancy Lukens; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 1, Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), pp. 150–1. Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, pp. 199–204, 252. Cf. C. E. B. Cranfield, Romans II (ed. J. A. Emerton et al.; The International Critical Commentary, Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1979), pp. 595–6. Bernd Wannenwetsch, ‘Members of One Another: Charis, Ministry and Representation. A PoliticoEcclesial Reading of Romans 12’, in A Royal Priesthood? The Use of the Bible Ethically and Politically (ed. C. Bartholomew et al.; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2002), pp. 196–220 (205). Ibid., p. 205. Pace Cranfield, Romans II, p. 600.

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exhortation given in the previous verse: ‘Do not be conformed to this world [mὴ suschmatίzesqe tῷ aἰῶni toύtῳ], but be transformed by the renewal of your mind.’ In the light of the previous section, as well as the previous chapter (Section III), this appeal for ‘non-conformity’ is not surprising. First of all, Paul’s appeal to the Romans to offer themselves in mutual service echoes the dynamic implied in Jesus’ gift of friendship (Jn 15). And, as already suggested in the previous section, this dynamic fleshes out much of what living ‘beyond judgement’ entails. Indeed, from the perspective of Paul and the Roman Church, their sacrifice of mutual service expresses their acceptance of God’s judgement in Jesus Christ. The ‘body politic’ that comes into existence as a result – the ‘one body’ formed by their sacrifice – stands in sharp contrast to the polities governed through the ongoing exercise of judgement by their secular representatives. The order applying to the body of Christ is very different from that of this world, or indeed ‘this age’ (tῷ aἰῶni toύtῳ). What this process of spiritual transformation will lead to, Paul goes on to write, is that ‘by testing’ the Romans will ‘discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect’ (v. 2). Given the close connection between the two exhortations in verses 1–2, it seems Paul is suggesting that they will receive the ability to test and discern God’s will through their corporate sacrifice: this ability follows, and is received in, the practice of mutual service with which they distinguish themselves from the worldly order. In the translation of the English Standard Version the verbs ‘testing’ and ‘discerning’ are used to convey a single Greek verb: dokimάzein. Its primary meaning is ‘to test’ or ‘to probe’. Yet here, in verse 2, the object of testing is not only ‘the will of God’, but also ‘what is good and acceptable and perfect’, which, as Wannenwetsch points out, suggests the inclusion of a (relatively) intransitive sense: a probing that consists not only in assessment of a particular object, but also in moral discernment more generally. In other words, Paul is speaking here of the practice of learning God’s will, which at the same time is a process of growth in wisdom.36 The practice that Paul describes here in terms of testing and discernment is not unlike the practice of judging-for-oneself mentioned by Oliver O’Donovan, and discussed at the end of Chapter 5 (Section III). To probe and discern ‘God’s will’ is to recognize what God’s judgement has given us to do – ‘what is good and 36

‘The probing of God’s will is not separable from the probing of our hearts (1 Thess. 2.4) and deeds (1 Cor. 3.13). Therefore, the translation “discerning” aims at more than mere intellectual practice and must assume a specifically moral meaning, wherein the discernment of God’s will is identical with the discovery of “the good and acceptable and perfect”’. Wannenwetsch, ‘Members of One Another’, p. 207n24.

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acceptable and perfect’ (Rom. 12.2). It is not only to judge that God’s judgement is indeed good, and worthy of obedience, but also to perceive what obeying it looks like here and now. This, of course, is not judgement in its primary political sense, as used in this study; that is, the task of exercising, executing and/or enforcing judgement, which belongs to the political authorities – and ultimately to God (only). But nor does it merely amount to discernment in its basic, purely practical sense, as in ‘practical reason’. The latter involves the weighing up and deciding among various possible courses of action. Yet Paul’s dokimάzein is more specific, involving not only decision between practical possibilities, but also recognition as to which of these are right – or, in Paul’s words, ‘good and acceptable and perfect’. Certainly, instead of exercising judgement independently, the church receives judgement. Yet Paul suggests that such reception is far from passive, involving as it does testing and discernment of precisely what God’s judgement (‘God’s will’) means in this or that situation. To that extent, then, the church can be said to participate in judgement, in establishing the rule of Christ in its midst.

Members of one another Further suggestions concerning exactly how the church participates in God’s judgement follow in Romans 12.3–8, where Paul introduces his body allegory. He begins by underlining that in the church discernment ought to be corporate discernment, and then proceeds to show that this in turn ought to be anchored in a dynamic of corporate ministry. First, any notion of competition in discernment and judgement is out of the question: as if these were primarily individual qualities or capacities, and superior mastery of them merited a position of leadership in the church. Playing with the Greek jroneῖn (‘to think’), Paul urges everyone ‘not to think of himself more highly [ὑperjroneῖn] than he ought to think [jroneῖn], but to think with sober judgement [jroneῖn eἰV tὸ swjroneῖn], each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned’ (v. 3). In the light of the following verses, it is clear that the meaning of ‘measure of faith’ cannot be quantitative, with some members presumably having ‘more’ faith than others. Instead, faith is itself the objective measure that determines how the Romans should think of themselves.37 This measure may be experienced in God’s distribution of different gifts among believers, as Paul suggests in the following verses. Yet the way individual believers 37

Wannenwetsch, ‘Members of One Another’, p. 209. See also Cranfield, Romans II, pp. 613–16.

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think of themselves is to be determined by faith – which is a common measure, rather than a subjective quality. In verses 4–5 Paul proceeds to explain the dynamic of service and ministry that corresponds to this distribution of gifts, and the use each is to make of these gifts, for the benefit of the whole body. Paul writes that ‘as in one body we have many members, and the members do not all have the same function, so we, though many, are one body in Christ and individually members of one another’ (12.4–5). Compared with what one might expect Paul to say, Wannenwetsch observes, ‘the thrust of [his] words goes in a perhaps annoyingly different direction’.38 It may seem as if Paul simply uses a classical image to describe the ecclesial ‘body politic’ – with power residing, if not with a single ‘head’, then at least with those in charge of key ministries such as prophecy, teaching and pastoral care.39 In other words, those members who exercise these ministries rule the other members with the authority derived from the ‘one body’ (ἓn sῶmά).40 Such a model might be plausible had Paul written (as he in fact does in 1 Cor. 12.27) that each individual member belongs to the one body. But here, in Romans 12, what he actually says is that the members, while together making up a single body, are ‘individually members one of another’ (kaq’ eἷV ἀllήlwn mέlh). Instead of representation according to a top-down structure, what we find is mutual representation. Service to the body as a whole is primarily expressed in service to individual members. Thus the members ‘represent’ each other, through their service, rather than being represented collectively by a few leaders. Within the body of Christ representation is reciprocal.41 However surprising this dynamic might seem, it is implied in the fact that the various gifts distributed within the body are manifestations of the single gift, received from God by the body as a whole.42 Accordingly, no member can claim authority on the basis of his or her exclusive gift or ‘expertise’.43 It may seem that as 38 39 40 41

42

43

Wannenwetsch, ‘Members of One Another’, p. 210. Cf. vv. 6–8. Cf. Aristotle, Politics 1254a14–1255b3. See also Chapter 1, Section III. Rousseau, in Book I, chapter vii of The Social Contract (1762), using the body/members image in describing ‘the sovereign’ (the body created by the social contract), seems to follow Paul’s emphasis on the body’s subsistence in its members. In the preceding chapter, however, the logic is different from Paul’s: each party to the contract, ‘in giving himself to all gives himself to none’ (emphasis added). Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract (trans. Christopher Betts; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), p. 55. The basis for Paul’s appeal in verse 1 is ‘the mercies of God’ (diὰ tῶn oἰktirmῶn toῦ qeoῦ) – the grace to which the Romans owe their ‘incorporation’ in Christ. The plural oἰktirmῶn need not refer to a number of mercies; cf. Cranfield, Romans II, p. 596. Indeed, God’s ‘mercies’ constitute the single basis of the various gifts (carίsmata) and ministries given to the body; see Wannenwetsch, ‘Members of One Another’, pp. 203–4. Wannenwetsch, ‘Members of One Another’, pp. 210–11.

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a result, authority becomes vague and elusive. Yet, as Wannenwetsch points out, authority is really present in the church, namely the authority of Christ to whom the body belongs. Here, then, authority does not reside with functionaries acting ‘on behalf of ’ the body, but is present among the members of the body – just as Christ himself is present among them. No further representation is needed for the church to live as a body politic. And if Christ’s authority is to be further represented through specific ministries at all, then what ought to be emphasized, writes Wannenwetsch, is ‘the reflexive form of the noun “representation”’. This, he explain, ‘denotes a presentation of something which is already there . . . the mystical body of Christ is already present, and the congregation shall be ever more transformed into it. Ministry does not create order but presupposes it’.44 Within this ‘body politic’, then, no-one has an exclusive claim to either judgement or specific ministries. Since this body is the body of Christ, the dynamic Paul hints at must also be clearly distinguished from a free-for-all struggle for power and influence. Bonhoeffer makes this point in Life Together (Gemeinsames Leben, 1938).45 Central to Bonhoeffer’s discussion is the notion of Christ mediating all relations within the church. Christ’s mediatory position means that these relations are not governed by the ‘psychic’ (psychische) forces – emotions, desires, manipulation  – that tend to shape human fellowship. Instead, it is Christ himself who ‘stands between me and others’.46 Bonhoeffer points out (referring to 1 Thess. 4.9–10) that, since Christ became our brother, our brother- and sisterhood is transformed: ‘My brother or sister is . . . that other person who has been redeemed by Christ, absolved from sin, and called to faith and eternal life.’47 Christ’s mediating position means that Christians see each other only through his eyes, no longer relating to each other ‘immediately’ – subject to ‘psychic’ influences and manipulation. Christ’s position also has implications for the way Christians serve each other: they have to learn to accept service from each other as well and represent each other in doing so, just as Jesus’ disciples need to learn to accept each other’s friendship and service.48 In fact, Bonhoeffer’s concept of mediation is biblically anchored in John 13 and 15: not only do we find Jesus in the ‘middle’, surrounded by his friends (as in 44 45

46 47 48

Ibid., p. 212. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together – Prayerbook of the Bible (ed. Geffrey B. Kelly; trans. Daniel W. Bloesch and James H. Burtness; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 5, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005). See also Chapter 2, Section I. Ibid., p. 43. Ibid., p. 34. See above, Section I.

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paintings of the Last Supper); we also see him challenging them to allow his friendship to ‘mediate’ and transform the way they relate to each other. The disciples’ relationships are to be shaped by and rooted in Jesus’ gift of friendship to them.49 It is in a very similar way that, in Life Together, Bonhoeffer presents Christ as standing between his brothers and sisters.50 His specific interest is in Christ’s mediating role as one that resists the establishment of relations, factions or dependencies purely on the basis of individual qualities, needs or powers. The only ministries Christian may perform on each others’ behalf, and thus accept from each other as well, are those that are received directly in and with Christ.51 Just as Jesus’ disciples need to learn to accept Jesus’ gift of friendship in each other’s service, likewise Christians need to learn to recognize ‘Christ in the word of other Christians.’52 Thus Christians can only represent each other insofar as they represent Christ, quite apart from whatever representative gifts and powers each is personally able to marshal. As Luther puts it, more pithily, Christians are to become ‘Christs to one another’.53 Bonhoeffer’s notion of Christ’s mediation provides helpful commentary on the mutual representation between the members of the body in Romans 12. It underlines what was mentioned earlier, namely that in representing each other the members share and participate in a single gift. In using this gift (in all its variety, as spelled out in vv. 6–8) they must acknowledge that it is given to the body as a whole; the whole body has a share in the various ministries that draw on this gift.54 Thus even those exercising a particular ministry are dependent on the other members’ share in that ministry: no-one can minister without at the same time submitting to those he or she is serving.55 The ministry of the Word, for example, cannot be exercised without an appeal to the congregation’s active and discerning listening; the whole congregation has a share in the gift of teaching. ‘So the minister’, Wannenwetsch writes, ‘is by her exercise of a charisma to others exactly witnessing to the commonality of the charisma’.56 Since God’s grace is 49 50

51

52 53

54

55 56

Cf. 1 Sam. 20.23, where Jonathan reminds David that ‘the Lord is between you and me for ever’. Bonhoeffer’s emphasis, of course, is on the continuing presence of Christ amongst his followers; Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, pp. 201–4. Bonhoeffer’s example is the ministry of the Word: ‘God put [his] Word into the mouth of human beings so that it may be passed on to others . . . God has willed that we should seek and find God’s living Word in the testimony of other Christians.’ Bonhoeffer, Life Together, p. 32. Ibid. The Freedom of a Christian (1520), in Martin Luther, Three Treatises (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1970), p. 305. Cf. Bernd Wannenwetsch, Political Worship: Ethics for Christian Citizens (Oxford Studies in Theological Ethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 330–4. Wannenwetsch, ‘Members of One Another’, pp. 212–13. Cf. 1 Cor. 12.1–11, where Paul emphasizes that there is one Spirit in the diversity of gifts. Cf. 1 Cor. 12.26, where Paul alludes to mutual dependence through shared rejoicing and suffering. Wannenwetsch, ‘Members of One Another’, p. 213.

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abundant, the members of the body are each free not only to participate in the ‘gifts that differ according to the grace given to us’ (v. 6); like Jesus’ disciples and friends, they are free also to submit to the exercise of these gifts by others. They are free to be ‘members of one another’.

Judgement in mutual submission This interpretation of Romans 12.3–8 sheds further light on the way in which the church, as the body of Christ, receives and participates in judgement. In verses 1–2 it was already suggested that the church’s discernment of God’s will flows from the its corporate sacrifice: for the Romans to offer themselves as a living sacrifice to God is to be transformed and grow in wisdom. Furthermore, the notion of individual bodies offered up in a single sacrifice (v. 1) is elaborated in the body allegory in verses 4–5, and particularly in Paul’s account of the dynamics of mutual service and submission within the body (vv. 5–8). To repeat Wannenwetsch’ summary, Paul is pointing to an ‘offering of the body (the church) through the communal offering of the individual bodies to become one body in mutual service’.57 It was also suggested earlier that the church participates in God’s judgement through this corporate sacrifice (vv. 1–2). What has become clearer since, however, is that this participation is realized specifically through the ‘general’ practice of mutual service and ministry. The church receives and participates in judgement, not by disengaged reflection, but rather in practice, and particularly through the dynamic of mutual submission: the same dynamic that is also initiated by Jesus’ gift of friendship. Thus the church cannot discern the full scope of God’s will – of ‘what is good and acceptable and perfect’ (v. 2) – unless its members learn not only to serve each other, but also to accept service from each other. This manner of exercising judgement stands in sharp contrast, of course, to its conventional political exercise. Instead of subjecting others to judgement, it involves judging-foroneself 58: discerning where and how God calls me to serve and submit; and only in that sense does it also involve critical discernment and interpretation of what God has judged good and right. And thus the intuitive order between judgement and practice is reversed: judgement is no longer a separate act – preceding, confining and enabling practice – but one that is rather exercised in practice; an inversion already implied in the notion of judging-for-oneself. The Roman 57 58

Ibid., p. 205. Cf. Chapter 5, Section III.

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church will judge insofar as, in using the various gifts and ministries received, it discerns and explores the underlying single gift of God’s mercy in Christ. As already suggested, the dynamic of mutual service and submission in Romans 12 echoes the dynamic of friendship flowing from Jesus’ gift of friendship in John 15. For Jesus’ disciples to serve each other in line with their master’s gift of friendship is to submit to each other. And just as the Christians in Rome are to receive and explore the single gift of God’s grace, in the various gifts and ministries Paul mentions, so do Jesus’ disciples receive in each other the single gift of Jesus’ friendship and sacrifice. Indeed, it is this gift that invites and allows for mutual service and submission in both cases. Similarly, but in a more political vein, the contrast between the order implied in Jesus’ friendship and the rule of the nations (Section I) is reflected in the contrast Paul draws between the church’s corporate sacrifice and the ‘schema’ of this world. Indeed, the foregoing of judgement implied in Jesus’ new commandment is affirmed and elaborated in the suggestion that judgement is only to be exercised in and through mutual service. This suggests, first, that the dynamic of service and submission characterizing the church is ultimately a dynamic of friendship; but also that this very same dynamic involves an alternative practice of judgement, one that marks the church as an alternative political community witnessing to the Kingdom of God.

III  Judgement received in friendship The picture that emerges from John 15 and Romans 12, taken together, is of a church that exercises judgement implicitly, through the practice of mutual submission as initiated and limited by Jesus’ unique gift of friendship. Within the community of Jesus’ disciples, friendship becomes a means of discerning and enacting God’s judgement. Thus ecclesial politics begins in friendship: at least one respect, one might say, in which the church resembles Aristotle’s polis.59 What this conclusion offers is, first of all, a more developed account of ­judgement as it is exercised in the church, one that places friendship at the very ­centre. This new perspective on the connections between discipleship, ­friendship, the church and judgement is particularly interesting, of course, with regard to the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer. Before the discussion turns back to their story, however, it is worth noting that the above conclusion also implies a 59

Cf. Chapters 1 (Section III) and 3 (Section I).

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r­ e-evaluation of certain dynamics in friendship already discussed in Chapter 3, especially ‘mutual dependence’ (Section I) and ‘mutual empowerment’ (Section II). These dynamics were recognized as ‘parapolitical’, but only in a relatively weak sense, involving practices that are vital in sustaining public life and political communities, yet without as such involving specifically political practices, such as judgement.60 Subsequent reflections, however, have led to a re-affirmation of the political significance of these friendship dynamics, in the specific context, that is, of Christian discipleship and church life. Here judgement is exercised exactly through mutual service, which involves mutual empowerment as well as mutual dependence. That said, the above explorations also suggest that not all friendly mutuality necessarily involves the specific kind of reciprocity implied in the pattern of Jesus’ friendship (Jn 15), and in the corporate sacrifice of the church (Rom. 12), is not necessarily identical to any form of mutuality between friends in general. Indeed, mutuality may amount simply to a rhythm of giving and receiving, to such an extent as the friends involved are able to sustain out of their own resources. In the church, however, this rhythm derives from a gift preceding and ‘external’ to the friends’ giving and receiving: Jesus’ singular gift of friendship in John 15, God’s ‘mercies’ in Romans 12. Moreover, it is this gift that gives the friends the freedom genuinely to submit to each other – even in those moments when the usual rhythm of giving and receiving, of mutual dependence and empowerment, might falter or halt. Furthermore, judgement that is exercised in the church, through the ‘friendly’ practice of mutual service and submission, is communal. Again, the commonness of such judgement does not depend on the degree to which disciples are able to come to an agreement, or to have all views and opinions within the community represented. It is not just a matter of rising above purely personal perspectives and seeking to represent the views of the ‘public’ in one’s judgement (as Kant would recommend61) – however important this may be. Ecclesial judgement is intrinsically communal, being inseparable from the church’s ‘friendly’ practices of service, ministry and submission; and these practices, it was pointed out above, are intrinsically corporate, governed by the mediating presence of Jesus Christ himself – the crucial ‘third’ Friend. In other words, whatever emerges in the church in terms of views and opinions that do not represent Christ, or reflect the pattern of service established by him, is not judgement – that is, judgement of the kind granted to the church. The church can only judge through a process 60 61

See Chapter 3, Section III. See Chapter 4, Section III.

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of waiting for the truth to show itself, just as it must wait and listen in worship to hear God’s Word, and indeed recognize Christ in Word and sacrament; in the church judgement can only be a ‘work of the Spirit’.62 These findings also throw further light on the parapolitical character of friendship, as posited in Chapter 1 and explored in subsequent chapters. Friendship’s dynamics were found to function alongside, in support of, or even as the beginning of political dynamics and processes. In addition, the prefix ‘para’ was seen as pointing to a reality that is in some way ahead of that alongside which it exists or functions. Thus, in Chapter 5, the interaction between Bell and Bonhoeffer at Sigtuna was identified as being ‘ahead of ’ conventional political processes: not just in the sense of their ability to judge where the conventional processes of judgement were eclipsed by violence, but especially in the sense that their gestures of repentance and forgiveness were real (albeit limited) harbingers of future peace and reconciliation. In the light of the discussion in this chapter, however, this characterization of friendship’s political dynamics can be extended to the church more generally – the body of Christ governed by his gift of friendship. From a theological point of view – one that considers God’s judgement in Christ as the ultimate reference point for all political judgements63 – the church, in participating and living out God’s judgement through its ‘friendly’ practices of mutual service and submission, is ‘ahead’ of the world; and particularly ahead of secular rule, based on judgement ‘externally’ imposed by force.

Bell and Bonhoeffer: Friends in Christ The above interpretation of the church as a community of friends, ruled by Christ’s gift of friendship, adds an important new perspective to the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer: a story of friendship between two particular disciples of Christ. Indeed, it suggests a new sense in which their friendship was a context of judgement – in the wider context, that is, of the church as the body of Christ. First of all, the discussion thus far suggests that particular friendships such as theirs neither derive from nor generate the church community, nor do the judgements exercised in friendship derive from or generate ecclesial judgement. Friendship and its practices are rather the ‘means’ by which the church exercises judgement. Thus, with regard to the events during and after the meeting at 62 63

Wannenwetsch, Political Worship, pp. 301–2. Cf. Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, pp. 226–8. Cf. Chapter 5, Section III.

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Sigtuna, what is confirmed is the suggestion made previously, in Chapter 5 (Section III), namely that the interaction between Bell and Bonhoeffer at Sigtuna constituted a moment in the life of the church. As already suggested there, Bell and Bonhoeffer exercised judgement in the ‘style’ of the church – which Oliver O’Donovan characterizes as ‘judging-for-oneself ’. Since then it has been suggested that the church receives judgement through the ‘friendly’ practice of mutual service and submission by its members: a practice that follows the order of love and service of the friendship that Jesus himself established among his disciples. The interaction between Bell and Bonhoeffer Sigtuna shows a dynamic that appears to reflect this order rather closely. Apart from any overtly collective and representative dimensions to the friends’ interaction,64 what now emerges as particularly significant is the extent to which friendship created space for Bonhoeffer to speak of repentance in the first place. Certainly, it was Bonhoeffer himself who introduced the subject of repentance, and he did so directly in response to Schönfeld rather than Bell. Moreover, this was not the first time that Bonhoeffer had thought about the war and post-war reconciliation in terms of personal confession and repentance.65 Nevertheless, it was because he knew that people like Bell existed, and continued to reach out to him and his fellow-Germans, that Bonhoeffer found the freedom to offer signs of repentance that were personally costly. And in the light of the themes discussed in the present chapter, this can now be rephrased in more explicitly ecclesial terms. First of all, a crucial factor here is the freedom that allowed Bonhoeffer to accept personal responsibility and culpability in the first place. This freedom, defying the all-too-human tendency towards self-justification, is nothing less than the freedom that the church receives in Christ: freedom to confess guilt and accept more than one’s strictly personal share of responsibility, as a response to the mercy and forgiveness that the church has already received in Christ. Now, insofar as the six pastors were gathered in Christ’s name, Christ thus being ‘among them’ (Mt. 18.20), this freedom was already constitutive of the spirit in which they met and deliberated. One might perhaps even say that, there and then, the body of Christ ‘subsisted’ in their gathering. Nevertheless, their conversations were led by the spirit of diplomacy as well as the Spirit of Christ – by a desire for guarantees as well as a willingness to serve and suffer. In this context, then, it was the presence of his friend Bell, more than anything 64

65

Cf. Chapter 5, Sections I–II. The ‘vicarious’ dimension of their interaction will be addressed in Chapter 7, Section I. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Ethics (ed. Clifford J. Green; trans. Reinhard Krauss et al.; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 6, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), pp. 134–45. See also Chapter 5, Section I.

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else, that reminded Bonhoeffer of this freedom to repent. For in Bell he had not only a representative of a nation to which repentance was due, but also a friend ‘appointed’ by Christ to serve him and carry his burden (as well as to receive his service). Indeed, Bonhoeffer’s repentance was dependent upon what was effectively his friend’s ‘ministry’ of hearing his ‘confession’.66 Thus Bell acted not primarily as a spokesperson for Germany’s enemies or victims, but rather as a representative of Christ – and hence as a representative of Bonhoeffer as well, his ‘friend in Christ’. If Bonhoeffer were to express his repentance in action as well as words, thereby making sacrifices for Bell’s compatriots (and others), his service would nevertheless remain dependent on Bell’s ministry to him: an example of dynamic of mutual service and submission discussed earlier. Thus it was through acts of friendship that during the Sigtuna meeting the rule of Christ prevailed over the politics of diplomatic calculation.

Ecclesial judgement in friendship The interaction between Bell and Bonhoeffer during the Sigtuna meeting thus reflects and illustrates the dynamic of mutual service explored in Sections I and II, in the light of John 15 and Romans 12. But to what extent did the interaction between Bell and Bonhoeffer also involve judgement, in the sense, that is, as suggested by St Paul in Romans 12? In Chapter 5 much was said already about the extent to which the friends exercised judgement together, in general as well as during the Sigtuna meeting in particular. What follows are meant as additional observations, aiming to refine rather than wholly revise what was established there. It was observed earlier that at Sigtuna Bell and Bonhoeffer exercised judgement only insofar as they spoke and acted together in obedience to God’s judgement; only as such was there judgement ‘in’ their repentance and forgiveness respectively. It was also suggested that this ‘common judgment’ by Bonhoeffer and Bell was illustrative of the church’s life, which, though marked by a move ‘beyond’ judgement, involves participation in divine judgement.67 Since then, this ecclesial exercise of judgement has been further explored in the light of Romans 12, where it is described in terms of the testing and discerning of God’s will. Especially interesting, however, is the notion (emerging from the earlier comparison between Romans 12 and John 15), that this participation in God’s judgement 66

67

Bonhoeffer considers this a primary service Christians owe to each other. See Bonhoeffer, Life Together, p. 98. See Chapter 5, Sections II–III.

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is received through the friendship dynamic of mutual service and submission. This confirms the suggestion made earlier, namely that as ‘friends in Christ’ Bell and Bonhoeffer indeed sought to discern together the will of God; or, to use St Paul’s terms, to discern what was ‘good and acceptable and perfect’ (Rom. 12.2), in the challenging circumstances they were facing, rather than reach their own independent judgement. What is also confirmed is the suggestion that their common judgement was not exercised on the basis of a reflective distance, but rather through practical engagement. Indeed, in the light of the discussion in this chapter, the latter can be recognized as an example of the church’s exercise of judgement through the practices of friendship as established by Christ. However, in circumstances such as those faced by Bell and Bonhoeffer at Sigtuna, ‘judgement’ can have a more specific meaning than just ‘discernment’ (as in Rom. 12.2). In such circumstances the primary emphasis lies more specifically on the condemnation and punishment of offences enacted by God, or by the secular political authorities (presumably on God’s behalf). Furthermore, such more overtly ‘judicial’ exercise of judgement may not be entirely excluded from the church’s share in judgement. It is Bonhoeffer himself who makes this point in Life Together. In a chapter called ‘Service’ Bonhoeffer discusses, among other things, the topic of church discipline – a practice that has clear judicial overtones. As Bonhoeffer explains, Christian discipline must be seen as a subtype of ‘service of the Word of God’.68 After addressing the fear of offending others by speaking God’s Word into difficult situations, Bonhoeffer goes on to describe the right exercise of this ministry. Echoing his earlier observations about Christ mediating relations between Christians, he now writes: ‘The more we learn to allow the other to speak the Word to us, to accept humbly and gratefully even severe reproaches and admonitions, the more free we are and to the point we ourselves will be in speaking.’69 Thus discipline is first of all ministry of the Word: as Christians minister to each other the God’s Word, they together submit to the Word. Now, this ministry takes on a disciplinary form whenever the Word is found to pronounce judgement, calling for repentance from particular members. Yet Bonhoeffer is quick to point out that such judgement, even when articulated by way of explicit admonition, is only exercised in a ‘mediated’ manner. He writes: ‘When we allow nothing but God’s Word to stand between us, judging and helping, it is a service of mercy, an ultimate offer of genuine community. Then it is not we who are judging; God alone judges, and God’s judgement is 68 69

Bonhoeffer, Life Together, pp. 103–7. Cf. Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, pp. 270–4. Bonhoeffer, Life Together, p. 105.

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helpful and healing’ (emphasis added).70 For Christians to discipline each other, then, is to allow nothing else but God’s judgement to ‘stand between’ them. And yet, this does not mean that judgement is wholly external to the church – as if it fell straight from heaven. Indeed, it is interesting that when Bonhoeffer proceeds to outline the social dynamics in which God’s judgment is received, he adopts the language of friendship: ‘The practice of discipline in the community of faith begins with friends who are close to one another.’71 What is suggested, then, is that friendship is not only the means through which the church discerns God’s will for the general shape of its corporate life, but also the means through which it exercises God’s judgement on particular sins or offences. In the latter sense, the roles of those partaking in the task of judgement become differentiated in a way that does not necessarily apply for judgement in the former sense: all submit to judgement, yet some by way of proclaiming God’s Word, others through interpretation of it; some through repentance, others by declaring God’s absolution and forgiveness. This differentiation is exactly what takes place in the interaction between Bonhoeffer and Bell at Sigtuna: both seek to articulate God’s judgement, yet primarily ‘through’ repentance and forgiveness respectively. Thus their interaction is an illustration not only of the church’s discernment of God’s will, but also of its participation in divine judgement. Bell and Bonhoeffer truly exercised judgement as much as they submitted to it.

Beyond Sigtuna Bell and Bonhoeffer’s case is an exceptional one, shaped as it is by the extraordinary circumstances they had to face. And although the ‘judicial’ dimension of their words and deeds can be considered as illustrative of the church’s task of judgement (as argued above), this does not lessen the need to translate the significance of their story more broadly, with reference to the church’s political existence, and particularly the role of friendship in it. The next and final chapter will therefore seek to establish in outline the significance of friendship for the church’s ongoing political witness in society. Yet the focus will no longer be on the church’s intrinsically ‘friendly’ character as such (as discussed in this chapter), but on the distinct role of particular friendships (such as that of Bell and Bonhoeffer) within the life of the church. 70 71

Ibid. Ibid.

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The previous chapter established that the church can be described as a fellowship of friends, and that ecclesial practices of service, ministry and judgement are governed by Christ’s gift of friendship. Yet, in addition to this intrinsically ‘friendly’ character of the church in general, what might be the distinct significance or role of particular friendships and friends – woven into the wider fabric of church fellowship, and yet still distinct from it. This will be the leading question in this final chapter. More specifically, it will be asked what, if any, might be the specific contribution of these relationships to the church’s political existence and witness (as outlined in Chapter 6). While the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer has already served as a rich resource in answering this question, this chapter seeks to translate earlier findings in terms less confined to that story. The aim here is to use their story as an example of how in different times and circumstances disciples of Christ might live his gift of friendship, both within the church and in wider society. Section I offers an illustration of friendship’s enduring significance within the life of the church, by comparing the Sigtuna episode (Chapters 5 and 6) with events surrounding the 1945 Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt. Section II explores friendship’s significance for Christian political responsibility, particularly in the form of extraordinary or even illegal civic action. Bonhoeffer’s reflections on responsibility in Ethics will serve to highlight the importance of friendship in such circumstances. The final section summarizes the main findings of this chapter before articulating a conclusion to this study as a whole.

I  Friendship within the body of Christ This section will aim to highlight a particular example of how friendship’s dynamics might help remind the church of its own political existence, and

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especially the particular rule to which it submits. The story of Bell and Bonhoeffer, as narrated and interpreted in previous chapters, takes on further significance when compared with events taking place only a few years later.

The Stuttgart Declaration In 1945, soon after the end of World War II, the Council of the newly formed Evangelical Church in Germany, during its session on 18 and 19 October, drafted and issued the Stuttgarter Schulderklärung – or Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt. In many ways, this declaration was an echo of, or a response to, what Bonhoeffer had written in 1940 (in ‘Guilt, Justification, Renewal’) about the need for the church to accept culpability for German atrocities prior to and during the war.1 Indeed, in issuing this declaration of guilt the church leadership seemed to have heard the challenge in Bonhoeffer’s comment at Sigtuna, namely that any resistance to the Nazi regime was to be understood and practised as an ‘act of repentance’.2 The Stuttgart Declaration was not a direct response to Bonhoeffer’s challenge, of course; nor was it part of any plan for political resistance, of the kind envisaged by Bonhoeffer in 1942, when he spoke those words. Nevertheless, now that Bonhoeffer was no longer among them (he had been executed only 6 months earlier), the church leaders took up his challenge by explicitly admitting guilt – at a time when wounds were fresh, and feelings of resentment ran high. The immediate reason for the Council of the Evangelical Church to draft the Declaration of Guilt was the unexpected arrival on 17 October, the day preceding the official session, of a delegation of representatives from churches abroad.3 It was clear to all that some statement had to be drafted concerning the role of the German churches during the preceding 12 years of Nazism, and its present position within the international fellowship of churches. A draft text was discussed, amended and accepted on 18 October, and presented to the delegation the following day. It was received with much approval: the delegates took courage from the fact the Council confessed that the Evangelical churches shared in the responsibility and culpability of the German people for what had happened; 1

2 3

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Ethics (ed. Clifford J. Green; trans. Reinhard Krauss et al.; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 6, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), pp. 134–45. Cf. Chapters 2 (Section II) and 5 (Section I). See Chapter 5, Sections I–II. For a report of the proceedings, see ‘Einleitung’, in Martin Greschat (ed.), Im Zeichen der Schuld: 40 Jahre Stuttgarter Schuldbekenntnis. Eine Dokumentation (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1985), pp. 9–14.

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furthermore, that it did not make its confession conditional upon a similar statement by the delegates from the Allied countries, for example in relation to the deliberate destruction of German cities by the Allies (including Stuttgart, the city where they had gathered). Concerning the question of guilt, the Council states: ‘[W]e know ourselves to be united together with our people, not only in a solidarity of suffering [Gemeinschaft der Leiden], but also in a solidarity of guilt [Solidarität der Schuld]. With great pain do we say: through us endless suffering has been brought upon many peoples and lands.’4 There are clear resonances with Bonhoeffer’s stance: the church ought to take the initiative in confessing guilt; instead of distancing itself from people and nation, the church must follow the example of its Lord and practise solidarity with them. Or, as Bonhoeffer writes (in ‘Guilt, Justification, Renewal’), the church should be willing to accept guilt ‘without a sidelong glance at the others who are also guilty’.5 And thus the Stuttgart Declaration boldly declares that ‘through us endless suffering had been brought upon many peoples and lands’ (emphasis added). From Bonhoeffer’s perspective it would have been entirely fitting that the church should take an initiative in repentance. From an outsider’s perspective, however, the fact that the church publicly admitted a share in guilt for the atrocities of the previous 12 years must have been truly remarkable. As Gordon Rupp points out, it contrasted starkly with the ‘not guilty’ declared by all 24 top Nazi officials who appeared before the Nuremberg tribunal.6 To that extent, the church did for others what these were unable to do themselves. Martin Niemöller, one of the participants of the Stuttgart meeting, regarded the declaration as an important step on what he called the ‘road to freedom’.7 In Niemöller’s explanation the confession of Stuttgart was not only a reflective act but also a beginning of a journey, one that would require Germans to accept responsibility at a personal level, and act accordingly. Thus Niemöller called for that which Bonhoeffer had called for at Sigtuna, in 1942, namely confession and repentance that were both personal and practical. Indeed, the fact that Bonhoeffer had had to pay for his ‘works’ of repentance with his own life was a warning that genuine confession was a costly affair. 4

5 6 7

For the English translation, see Gordon Rupp, ‘I seek my brethren’: Bishop Bell and the German Churches (London: Epworth Press, 1974). For the original German text, see Greschat (ed.), Im Zeichen der Schuld, p. 45. Both versions are provided in Appendix 2. Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), p. 136. The tribunal was opened on the same date as the Stuttgart session. See Rupp, ‘I seek my brethren’, p. 27. In a later speech Niemöller explains how the declaration was to end the ‘eerie’ (unheimlich) game of ‘passing the parcel’, i.e., the parcel of guilt. Only a refusal to play this game could open up a ‘road to freedom’ (Weg ins Freie), leading away from collective, unredeemed guilt. Greschat (ed.), Im Zeichen der Schuld, pp. 65–8.

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If there was still a long way to go towards reconciliation within Germany, the situation was probably even worse at an international level. It was unlikely that the Stuttgart Declaration would provoke a forgiving attitude from the Allied nations. The German resistance had failed to overturn Hitler’s regime and thus forge an early peace; even worse, the outside world had largely failed to understand their attempts as ‘acts of repentance’. But while the German church would find little forgiveness abroad (as it found little contrition at home), it could nevertheless take courage from the sympathetic ear it found with the delegates present at Stuttgart. Their positive response echoed, as it were, Bell’s response to Bonhoeffer’s words at Sigtuna, in 1942. In fact, Bell himself was among these delegates.8 As testified by his memoirs, Bell had not forgotten the words Bonhoeffer had spoken at Sigtuna. Indeed, the urgency with which he tried to visit Germany after the end of the war9 suggests that the death of his friend had not changed his belief in an ‘other Germany’. Bell’s presence at Stuttgart, then, was of itself already an answer to the declaration, suggesting that for Germany and its victors there was still a road towards reconciliation.

Disagreements Despite broadly echoing Bonhoeffer’s call to confession, the Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt was also fraught with controversy and disagreement. Its reception was mixed and partly hostile, both within the church and in Germany more generally, and ended up being a controversial and divisive document. Much of Im Zeichen der Schuld (‘Marked by Guilt’), a collection of essays published in 1985 to commemorate the fortieth anniversary of the Stuttgart Declaration, is dedicated to interpreting the controversy. The editor, Martin Greschat, begins his analysis by raising the question that haunted the church leaders from the outset: did the declaration actually represent the position of the Evangelical Church – let alone the German people on whose behalf the Council (indirectly) presumed to speak?10 Indeed, the church leaders who had signed the Declaration were all prominent figures within the Confessing Church, the movement that had distanced itself from the official, pro-Nazi National Church.11 In fact, even among them there was no agreement as to how to interpret or explain this public confession. The disagreements surfaced after the declaration had begun to   8   9 10 11

He had arrived a day later, on 18 October; see Rupp, ‘I seek my brethren’, pp. 24–5. Edwin Robertson, Unshakeable Friend (London: CCBI, 1995), pp. 106–7. Greschat (ed.), Im Zeichen der Schuld, p. 14ff. See Chapter 2, Sections I–II.

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provoke negative responses from the public. The media portrayed the Stuttgart Declaration as an acknowledgement of Germany’s war guilt and the Council was flooded with angry letters, accusing it of subscribing too hastily to the notion of Germany’s ‘collective guilt’ (Kollektivschuldthese), while remaining silent about the Allied share in guilt and responsibility.12 In response to these protests several of the authors tried to talk down the declaration, arguing it had never been meant as a political statement. Hans Lilje argued that the confession was strictly ecclesial in character, stating, somewhat enigmatically (with Bishop Marahrens), that it was made ‘before God and not before men’ (vor Gott und nicht vor Menschen).13 In other words, the church had not tried to intervene in the political process of reckoning between Germany and the Allies. Instead, the church had to focus on the pastoral task of ‘comforting’ (trösten) the German people. This explanation of course militated against the statement in the declaration that the church is united in solidarity of guilt with the German people. This phrase does not necessarily imply the questionable notion of collective guilt, yet it clearly suggests that all Germans had at least some share in the responsibility for what had happened. The explanation favoured by Lilje and Marahrens thus flatly contradicted Niemöller’s. The latter had not envisaged his ‘road to freedom’ as one to be taken by individual believers only, but rather as a direction for German society as a whole.14 Indeed, the text of the declaration was itself a product of compromise, barely hiding disagreement between some of its authors, who would go on to explain its meaning and purpose in different ways. The blueprint for the final version was a draft produced by Bishop Otto Dibelius. It was Dibelius who first introduced the phrase ‘solidarity of guilt’.15 Yet he also wanted to emphasize the church’s resistance to Nazism. Thus the Declaration follows Dibelius also where it presents the church as fighting ‘against the spirit which found its fearful expression in the Nazi tyranny’.16 The only concession Dibelius allowed was that 12

13

14

15 16

Greschat (ed.), Im Zeichen der Schuld, p. 16. On the notion of ‘collective guilt’, see also Hannah Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil (Middlesex: Penguin, 1994), pp. 251–2, 297–8. Werner Krusche, ‘Schuld und Vergebung – der Grund christlichen Friedenshandelns’, in Im Zeichen der Schuld: 40 Jahre Stuttgarter Schuldbekenntnis. Eine Dokumentation (ed. Martin Greschat; NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1985), pp. 87–114 (94). For Hans Asmussen’s emphasis on the ‘priestly’ character of the Stuttgart Declaration, see Greschat (ed.), Im Zeichen der Schuld, pp. 19–20. ‘Was [Niemöller] predigte und bezeugte, war die auberordentliche Chance eines wirklich umfassenden Neuanfangs für den einzelnen wie für ein ganzes Volk, angeboten aufgrund des Evangeliums, das die Realität der Herrschaft Jesu Christi verkündete’ (emphasis added). Greschat (ed.), Im Zeichen der Schuld, p. 21. For Dibelius’ draft, see Ibid., pp. 44–5. On Dibelius’ use of ‘spirit’, see Ibid., pp. 12–13. Eberhard Bethge thought that the Stuttgart Declaration was formulated too vaguely; see Rupp, ‘I seek my brethren’, p. 26.

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the church’s opposition had not been bold enough. It was to counterbalance this relatively defensive emphasis that Niemöller had urged his fellow-councillors to follow Asmussen’s draft and add the clause that ‘through us endless suffering has been brought upon many peoples and lands’ – a clause supported and elaborated by Bell.17 For Bell, as for Niemöller, it was impossible for the church to speak of ‘solidarity of guilt’ without addressing the personal responsibility and culpability of individual Christians, directly or indirectly, for what had happened in the past 12 years.18 The Stuttgart Declaration thus being a product of compromise, in the aftermath of its publication it was the interpretations of Dibelius and Lilje – rather than Niemöller’s and Bell’s – that won the day. Later efforts to repeat, refine or update the declaration came to nothing. In the years immediately following the end of the war, during which Germans suffered physical hardship and the humiliation of foreign occupation, the pastoral task of ‘comforting’ was understood as consisting rather in advocacy of German interests before the occupying forces. And that task was not easily combined with repentance – or so it must have seemed to the majority of pastors. Greschat points out that already by 1946 the Stuttgart Declaration had ceased to be the basis for re-building relations with the churches abroad.19 Thus the church shrank back from its courageous words as soon as protests were heard; it even failed to respond appropriately when it did receive a positive answer from abroad.20 The Stuttgart Declaration did not result in the ‘new beginning’ (neuer Anfang) it had called for.21

Modes of representation While the Stuttgart Declaration initially seemed to echo Bonhoeffer’s earlier words on confession and repentance, this echo turned out to be partial at best. By failing to stand by its own words the church seemed to prove for itself what Bonhoeffer, in ‘Guilt, Justification, Renewal’, had observed concerning the 17

18

19

20

21

In his subsequent speech Bell mentioned the mass killing of the Jews and the deportations of Russians, Poles and Czechs. Rupp, ‘I seek my brethren’, p. 27. According to Rupp, this was not meant as implicit criticism of the Declaration, however, since Bell had written his speech on the plane to Germany. Cf. also Robertson, Unshakeable Friend, p. 111. As for Niemöller’s role in the meeting, see Greschat (ed.), Im Zeichen der Schuld, p. 12. Karl Barth is reported to have exclaimed, ‘Why not just say, “we have been political idiots”?’ Rupp, ‘I seek my brethren’, p. 26. Greschat (ed.), Im Zeichen der Schuld, p. 32. An exception was the ‘Darmstädter Wort’, a statement adopted by the Council of the Confessing Church (Bruderrat); see Ibid., pp. 35–40, 79–86. The 1946 Synod of the Dutch Reformed Church, in a letter sent to the Council of the Evangelical Church, spoke of its own share in responsibility for the atrocities of the past years. Ibid., pp. 27–8, 75–7. Cf. Krusche, ‘Schuld und Vergebung’, p. 93.

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nations, namely that ‘there is only a scarring over [Vernarbung] of guilt’.22 It seems as if the church saw no other way towards peace than by suppressing the question of guilt. Those among the clergy who were skeptical about the Stuttgart Declaration, talking instead about advocating German interests, arguably lent their energy to the ‘scarring over of guilt’ rather than the ‘ministry of reconciliation’ (2 Cor. 5.18). One might even argue that the Stuttgart Declaration itself already fell short of the kind of repentance envisaged by Bonhoeffer. While the latter had clearly encouraged an ecclesial initiative in confessing guilt, what he envisaged was probably not a formal statement issued by church officials on behalf of the institutional church – or at least not primarily. As an official church document, the declaration claims to speak collectively, for all members of the newly formed Evangelical Church (who, in turn, were assumed to confess guilt also on behalf of their compatriots). Yet this raises an even more difficult problem: was it correct for the church leaders to speak on behalf of the entire church in this matter (let alone Germany as whole)? Indeed, is it possible at all to confess and repent representatively, on behalf of others? The issue here is not the representative character of the Stuttgart Declaration as such, but the specific kind of representation intended here. There are many cases, of course, when it is entirely legitimate for church leaders to act and make decisions on behalf of church members, particularly in relation to administrative matters. The body of Christ has an institutional dimension as well, involving regulations, committees, councils and so forth.23 In this context, church government will typically operate in a quasi-political manner, resembling the processes of secular government. Yet in the Stuttgart Declaration the church seemed to extend its quasi-political role in what is arguably a pastoral domain. In fact, it is questionable whether what the Council sought to do is appropriate or even possible for secular government, in the context of political society. The notion of collective repentance, offered by a representative on behalf of a community or nation, is fraught with problems. Strictly speaking, it is impossible for anyone to repent for the sins of others, just as nobody should try to forgive on behalf of others – individual persons or groups. The only exception is Christ, the true representative of humanity whose death was unique, even compared 22

23

Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), p. 143. Cf. O’Donovan’s observation that societies ‘flourish only on the manure of their dead members’ flesh’. Oliver O’Donovan, The Ways of Judgment (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), p. 233. Cf. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Sanctorum Communio (ed. Clifford J. Green; trans. Reinhard Kraus and Nancy Lukens; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 1, Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), pp. 208–82.

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to the sacrifices of Israel’s high priests, in that only Christ truly and decisively died ‘for us’ (Rom. 5.8).24 Yet even Christ’s perfect sacrifice does not do away with the need for individual sinners to repent in order to receive forgiveness.25 If thus even Christ cannot be said to repent on behalf of humanity, then even less may we assume that human representatives can repent on behalf of their communities. As Anthony Bash points out, the best we may expect from political representatives is a collective ‘apology’: a gesture that might pave the way for genuine reconciliation to take place further down the line.26 Bonhoeffer’s declaration of repentance at Sigtuna was also ‘representative’, yet in a rather different sense. Instead of claiming to speak ‘on behalf of ’ Germany, he indicated that he personally did not wish to distance himself from his compatriots and their guilt – let alone ignore his own share in responsibility, due to his being part of the German church and German society. In other words, he was willing to accept burdens of guilt and responsibility beyond any strictly personal culpability, and accept personal sacrifice as a consequence.27 As Bonhoeffer had explained in ‘Guilt, Justification, Renewal’, the abundance of Christ’s sacrifice offers the church freedom to follow Him in bearing the guilt of others. Thus Bonhoeffer’s repentance was vicarious, rather than representative (in the stronger sense referred to above): instead of claiming to atone for the atrocities perpetrated by Germany, he declared that he would stand by his compatriots, willing to suffer with them the burden of their guilt that pressed on them, both individually and collectively. Indeed, as he had written in ‘Guilt, Justification, Renewal’: ‘In confessing its guilt the church does not release people from their personal confession of guilt, but calls everyone into a community of confession’ (emphasis assed).28 This is what Niemöller had in mind, too, in speaking of the Stuttgart Declaration as a first step on the ‘road to freedom’: a long and painstaking process that, though intended to affect society, would require the church’s appropriation of the Council’s declaration by way of personal initiatives in repentance and burden-sharing. Such an offer to share in the burden of guilt of others is not the same, of course, as a ‘blanket’ declaration of guilt, ‘on behalf of ’ an entire community or nation. Indeed, by simply declaring the 24 25

26

27 28

Cf. Heb. 5.1–10. When the crowd listening to Peter’s speech at Pentecost asks him how to respond to Christ’s death and resurrection, Peter responds: ‘Repent and be baptized every one of you’ (Acts 2.38). Cf. Anthony Bash, Forgiveness and Christian Ethics (New Studies in Christian Ethics, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 111–40. See Chapter 6, Section II. Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), p. 142. Cf. Ferdinand Schlingensiepen, Dietrich Bonhoeffer 1906–1945: Martyr, Thinker, Man of Resistance (trans. Isabel Best; London: T&T Clark, 2010), pp. 277–8.

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church’s ‘solidarity of guilt’ with the German people, the Council risked shortcircuiting the painstaking process Bonhoeffer and Niemöller intended. Instead of encouraging the churches to confess guilt and follow Christ in bearing the guilt of others – fellow-citizens as well as fellow-Christians – they opted for an official declaration that presumed to speak authoritatively on their behalf.

Friends preserving the rule of Christ The Stuttgart Declaration thus seems misguided in presuming to confess on behalf of the church.29 And if instead it presumed to ‘summon’ its members to express repentance, it would have been no less misguided: for how can confession and repentance be genuine if it is enforced, as if by decree? But whether the Council claimed to confess and repent on behalf of the church, or rather sought to ‘summon’ the church to a confession, in either case it would presume to act representatively – indeed quasi-politically – where it should have realized that a different from of leadership was required. As it stood, the Council’s declaration resembled a political decision made on the basis of conventional representative authority: pronounced by officials, and binding for those on whose behalf it is exercised. Reconciliation is often a public and political as well as a private matter, yet the Council seems to have overlooked that even reconciliation at national or international levels must nevertheless begin with, and be rooted in, personal initiatives of confession and repentance. Without such a basis any public declaration of guilt is bound to be superficial, or indeed damaging to the process of reconciliation. And perhaps this is why the Stuttgart Declaration provoked so much criticism. If people disputed the Council’s authority to cast them in the role of penitent, they were right in doing so. The alternative approach – advocating the interests of the German people – was more modest and realistic, and for that reason perhaps more honest as well. In comparing the story of the Stuttgart Declaration with the Sigtuna episode, it should be noted first of all that what took place at Sigtuna was not official and public in the way that the Council meeting at Stuttgart was; there were no public statements, no official delegations, no responses from the press or the public. Certainly, Bonhoeffer’s remark that their action ‘must be understood as an act of repentance’ was not just a personal statement; it was clearly intended to influence the way in which not only the resistance movement but also the international 29

Cf. Asmussen’s proposal, in 1946, to have the Council proclaim a ‘general absolution’ (Genera­ lamnestie). See Greschat (ed.), Im Zeichen der Schuld, pp. 32–5.

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community would understand their work of resistance. Nevertheless, Bonhoeffer did not intend to speak officially on behalf of the church, or Germany. And as far as Bell was concerned, he, too, did not act primarily as a representative (though he was then part of an official British delegation), but first of all as a friend, in whose presence Bonhoeffer experienced the freedom to express repentance in the way he did.30 The important difference between ‘Stuttgart’ and ‘Sigtuna’, then, is that between claiming to act for others (officially and collectively), and seeking to stand by others (personally). This is not the same as the difference between public and private: if Bonhoeffer declared to accept the guilt of his fellowcountrymen as his own, demonstrating his sincerity by accepting great personal sacrifices, this was surely an invitation to others to do likewise: an invitation to see themselves no longer merely as innocent bystanders, or victims (of Nazism and foreign aggression), but rather to understand their belonging to Germany as an occasion for Christian conciliatory practice. The point in comparing the two episodes is not to identify which is the stronger or ‘purer’ example of Christian discipleship. Indeed, the Sigtuna meeting was as much affected by disagreement as the proceedings at Stuttgart were.31 More interesting is the question of whether and how one episode might help in highlighting the meaning of the other. The agreement reached at Sigtuna was ultimately based on the ‘common judgement’ of friends: judgement that consisted, first of all, in submission to God’s judgement, and that was expressed in acts of repentance and forgiveness.32 The Council at Stuttgart, however, while aiming for the same conciliatory practices as envisaged by Bonhoeffer, sought to realize this by way of an official, quasi-political declaration. The body of Christ does have an institutional dimension, yet the weakness of the Stuttgart Council was that it seemed to rely on its institutional authority where only pastoral encouragement was appropriate – encouragement, that is, of the practices of mutual service and submission given to the church as the means by which to participate in Christ’s rule.33 The Sigtuna episode is significant, then, in that the example of Bell and Bonhoeffer uncovers the temptation to which the Council seems to have succumbed in issuing its declaration – the temptation, that is, of adopting conventional modes of governance and judgement where only ecclesial judgement was appropriate – judgement as modelled by Bell ad Bonhoeffer. The

30 31 32 33

See Chapter 6, Section III. See Chapter 5, Sections I–II. See Chapters 5 and 6. Cf. Chapter 6, Section II.

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Sigtuna episode illustrates how particular friendships (and indeed friends) might remind the church not only of its intrinsically ‘friendly’ nature, but especially of the ‘friendly’ way in which it is to exercise judgement and establish the rule of Christ. It is partly through the witness of particular friends that the church, especially in its institutional form, can sustain and maintain its own political life form and rule – rather than succumb to the rule of the nations. At Sigtuna, of course, Schönfeld’s inclination to use the conventional methods of diplomacy involved a similar temptation. As mentioned earlier, both episodes represent moments in the life of the church, which, even as the body of Christ, is not a ‘pure’ community, but rather a place in the world where different forms of rule meet and conflict, and where Christians continue to learn not to be ‘conformed to this world’ (Rom. 12.2).34 Thus, whatever the wider political significance of friendship shaped by discipleship (e.g., in society more generally), it first of all has a role in preserving the church’s distinct political existence. Within the wider community of the church, specific friends can embody the dynamic of mutual service and submission in a particularly powerful way, while remaining relatively immune to the temptations that come with the task of governing the institutional church. This is not to pit friends against the church, but rather to be attentive to the specific witness that friends have to offer to the life of the church.

II  Friendship and political responsibility The 1945 Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt remained a rather sterile document, failing to stimulate the process of reconciliation it envisaged and aimed for. Which is not to say, of course, that reconciliation did not take place: initiatives in reconciliation ministry, such as those undertaken by Coventry Cathedral, give testimony to the contrary.35 Moreover, the formalization of the ecumenical movement through the foundation of the Word Council of Churches, in 1948, created a permanent platform for the process of ongoing post-war reconciliation among the churches and peoples of Europe. Bell and Bonhoeffer, too, after their final meeting in 1942, returned to the practicalities of preparing for future reconciliation – which were all the more 34

35

Thus Wannenwetsch argues it is in worship that the competing political paradigms become explicit in the first place; see Bernd Wannenwetsch, Political Worship. Ethics for Christian Citizens (Oxford Studies in Theological Ethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 89–275. Cf. also Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship (ed. Geffrey B. Kelly and John Godsey; trans. Barbara Green and Reinhard Krauss; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 4, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), p. 225. Cf. www.crossofnails.org (accessed on 8 August 2013).

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difficult since they had to operate at a time when war was still devastating Europe. Bonhoeffer continued his dangerous game of collaborating with the German resistance while working for the Military Intelligence until his imprisonment in 1943. Bell, for his part, took on himself the arduous (and ultimately futile) task of seeking to prepare the British authorities for a German coup, and persuade the government to show support for the German resistance.36 While they refrained from seizing the office of political judgement in its conventional, secular form (as suggested in previous chapters), their actions were nevertheless political in nature, and not unlike acts of ‘emergency judgement’37: they clearly interfered in processes of secular politics, either by seeking to undermine and topple a regime deemed to have turned diabolical (Bonhoeffer), or by seeking to influence the processes of government and political decision-making (Bell). As for the friendship between the two, this does not seem to have a direct bearing on such political action – if only because following the meeting at Sigtuna they would never see each other again. However, it is still worth asking how friendship rooted in discipleship might shape, support or regulate the kind of exceptional political action such as undertaken by Bell and especially Bonhoeffer. In other words, what is the significance of friendship for Christian citizenship, in political society more broadly? One way of exploring this question is to highlight a specific temptation in the kind of political action undertaken by people such as Bell and Bonhoeffer, and Bonhoeffer in particular. As will be shown below, Bonhoeffer himself understood such political action in terms of responsibility modelled on Christ’s living, acting and dying vicariously ‘for’ humanity. Indeed, his discussion of ‘responsibility’ in Ethics provides further theological basis to the account, presented above, of Bonhoeffer’s ‘vicarious’ repentance. Yet as Bonhoeffer himself seems to admit in this context, such responsibility does come with the temptation of ‘heroism’. It is in the light of this temptation that friendship’s significance for Christian citizenship will emerge.

Political action as responsibility Bonhoeffer discusses political action and responsibility in both drafts of ‘History and Good’, which he intended as a chapter in his unfinished Ethics.38 The two 36 37 38

See Chapter 2, Section I. See Chapter 5, Section I. Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), pp. 219–98. For the dating of ‘History and Good’, see Ibid., pp.  424, 472.

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versions are broadly similar in terms of structure and argument, yet the theme of responsibility is more prominent in the second.39 In what follows, therefore, the focus will be on this second version. At the basis of Bonhoeffer’s account of responsibility stands the notion that all true action is responsive; all our actions are intelligible insofar as they amount to giving an answer.40 The ‘isolated individual does not exist’.41 We always act in a context: when our action does not constitute an answer to a specific person, then it should still be an answer to reality. Thus all our action ought to be ‘in accord with reality’ (wirklichkeitsgemäb).42 All action ought to be responsive, then, even though it isn’t overtly reciprocal. Bonhoeffer gives the example of a father acting on behalf of his children: the responsive character of the father’s action lies in his ‘working, providing, intervening, struggling, and suffering for them’ (emphasis added).43 And even without such specific relations of responsibility, Bonhoeffer points out, action still involves responsibility: either for humanity in general, or for oneself (the latter being a special case of responsibility for humanity). Responsibility can involve action on behalf of many people, rather than one specific person – as in political action. It is here that the responsible character of action becomes more explicit. Indeed, as Bonhoeffer suggests, here responsibility can be at its most dramatic. For acting responsibly can imply ‘[departing] from the domain governed by laws and principles,’ namely when ‘the strict observance of the explicit law of a state, a corporation, a family  .  .  . entails a clash with the basic necessities of human life’.44 In such situations, Bonhoeffer argues, the necessities of life ‘pose the question of the ultima ratio . . . In politics this ultima ratio is war, but it can also be deception or breaking a treaty for the sake of one’s own life necessities’.45 Responsible action must decide, then, ‘between right and right, wrong and wrong’.46 What is true for responsibility in general is most evidently true for political action: responsibility requires freedom – freedom that ‘exhibits itself . . . in the venture [Wagnis] of concrete decision’.47 The sphere of political action, then, is the supreme sphere of responsibility. 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

See ‘The Structure of Responsible Life’, in Ibid., pp. 257–89. Cf. the German Verantwortung or Verantwortlichkeit (‘responsibility’), and Antwort (‘answer’). Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), pp. 219, 253. Ibid., p. 222. Ibid., p. 258. Ibid., pp. 272–3. Ibid., p. 273. Ibid., p. 284. Ibid., p. 257.

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These citations seem to offer a straightforward commentary on Bonhoeffer’s role in the resistance, explaining what made him go as far as he did in taking political responsibility. It appears as if Bonhoeffer, supporting a plot to topple Hitler in a violent coup, found convenient justification in the principle of ‘necessity’. That is to say: tyrannicide may be morally and legally unjustified, but it is still required from a political point of view. According to this line of interpretation, Bonhoeffer would be suggesting that the free character of responsible action provides justification for violence. Yet this would imply that responsibility opens up a sphere of action somehow beyond the limits of Christian discipleship – a suggestion not supported in either version of ‘History and Good’. For one thing, Bonhoeffer is not interested in defining a discrete political realm, let alone in championing the independence of ‘the secular’. Nor is he interested in an ‘ethic’ of responsibility as such, for example one according to which the responsible agent has nothing to fall back on other than his own conscience.48 The idea of responsibility entailing an autonomous sphere of action – whether inward or outward, conceived as ‘conscience’ or as a secular realm – goes against the grain of Bonhoeffer’s argument, in ‘History and Good’ and indeed in Ethics as a whole. A major theme running through and uniting the various chapters is the unity of reality – more specifically, the unity of reality on account of God’s reconciling Himself with the world in Christ. As humanity stands at the centre of creation’s falling away  from God and its subsequent disintegration, it is in the God-man Jesus Christ that creation’s integrity is restored, and is henceforth to be found. A frequently recurring claim in the Ethics, therefore, is that only by attending to the facts of Christ’s incarnation, crucifixion and resurrection (taken together) can we really perceive and understand reality.49 To perceive reality ‘in Christ’ is to know reality as reconciled in Christ – including the world as it is still turned away from God. In Christ, then, reality is no longer broken, or subjected to the dualisms of ideals and ideology. In terms of ethics, what follows from this

48

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The concept of responsibility has forensic connotations, suggesting accountability before a court (forum). Yet, as Wannenwetsch argues, Bonhoeffer is highly sensitive to the temptation of taking this accountability outside the sphere of soteriology and internalizing the ‘court’, thereby reducing responsibility to an abstract principle – used to justify brave decisions in the face of so-called moral dilemmas. Here the emphasis has come to lie on self-defence, rather than attentiveness to the judgements of an external court, and indeed God’s judgement. Theologically speaking, ‘responsibility’ turns into a form of self-justification. Bernd Wannenwetsch, ‘ “Responsible Living” or  “Responsible Self ”? Bonhoefferian Reflections on a Vexed Moral Notion’, SCE 18:3 (2005), pp. 125–40. Cf. Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), pp. 66–7, 82–92, 134, 156–9, 253.

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is that the unity of reality does not depend on our attempts to make the world ‘more Christian’, for example by imposing Christian principles on it.50 This being the context of Bonhoeffer’s discussion of responsibility, the least Bonhoeffer would wish to do is suggest there is a sphere of action somehow unaffected by God’s reconciliation with the world. And the same background also determines Bonhoeffer’s understanding of responsibility in terms of ‘venture’ – including the venture of breaking certain laws or principles. The reason one might be called to act in this manner is not that the authority of one’s conscience trumps the authority of these laws of principles; it is rather that these laws and principles themselves can fall short of the unity of reality in Christ. Indeed, the fact that the world has been reconciled sets the agent free to act in response to reality without scruples about his moral purity. What exactly, then, does it mean to act responsibly? Bonhoeffer’s basic answer is that, in light of the world’s reconciliation in Christ, to respond to reality is at the same time, and more fundamentally, to respond to Christ. In responding to reality we cannot presume to begin with a clean sheet; we act within a context already established in Christ’s response to us and our world. Christ’s response is his ‘vicarious representative action’ (Stellvertretung)51 on behalf of us: his sacrifice on the cross, where he suffered God’s judgement on a world fallen away from God, thus performing the ultimate vicarious as well as representative act. As Christ was vindicated by being raised from the dead, his act of vicarious representation has become not just a model, but rather the very basis, for our responsible action.52 According to Bonhoeffer, we can only respond to the world adequately insofar as we at the same time respond to Christ. To respond to Christ is to ‘answer for’ 50

51

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Cf. ‘Ethics as Formation’, in Ibid., pp. 76–102. Heuser comments: ‘whenever Bonhoeffer comes along to do ethics, he arrives from somewhere in the story of Christ’. Stefan Heuser, ‘The Cost of Citizenship: Disciple and Citizen in Bonhoeffer’s Political Ethics’, SCE 18:3 (2005), pp. 49–69 (61). See also Guido de Graaff, ‘Overcoming Ethical Abstraction: Peaceableness, Responsibility, and the Rejection of Foundationalism in Bonhoeffer and Hauerwas’, in Engaging Bonhoeffer: The Impact and Influence of Bonhoeffer’s Life and Thought (ed. Matthew Kirkpatrick; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, forthcoming 2014). Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), pp. 231ff, 57ff. The phrase ‘vicarious representative action’ is perhaps a rather inelegant translation of the German Stellvertretung. Cf. Ibid., p. 257n41. Jennifer Moberly, ‘“Felicity to the Original Text”? The Translation of Bonhoeffer’s Ethics’, SCE 22:3 (2009), pp. 336–56 (350). Within the specific context of this study it is also potentially confusing in that it joins two concepts – ‘vicarious’ and ‘representative’ – that were carefully distinguished in Section I. Nevertheless, it should be noted that Christ’s role combines vicarious action with representation: when Christ suffers in our place, he does so not only as a brother, but as the true representative of humanity. Cf. Oliver O’Donovan, The Desire of the Nations: Rediscovering the Roots of Political Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 120–46. Cf. Chapter 6 (Section I), where it was argued that Christ’s gift of friendship is not just a model for, but also the very basis for his disciples’ friendship.

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him – that is, to give witness to what in Christ has already happened to the world, and how it is now represented by the risen Christ, before God. But we cannot answer for Christ without also following him in vicarious representative action. Bonhoeffer writes: ‘I give an account and thus take responsibility for what has happened through Jesus Christ  .  .  . I naturally also take responsibility for the commission I have been charged by him (1 Cor. 9.3).’53 Bonhoeffer’s argument runs as follows: if the whole of humanity is already represented in Christ, how could we witness to Christ without imitating him, especially if his vicarious sacrifice has given us the freedom to do so? Therefore, while called to ‘answer for’ Christ (before our neighbour), we are at the same time called to act on behalf of and so ‘answer for’ our neighbour (before Christ).54 For Bonhoeffer, to accept responsibility for others also involves willingness, in following Christ’s example, to bear the guilt of others. Christ, though without sin, took on himself the burden of humanity’s sins: he entered ‘into the community of human beings’ guilt’,55 and thus became guilty before God in their place. If we seek to follow Christ and support our neighbours by occupying their place for them, we must also be willing to carry their burden of guilt.56 Of course, our accepting this burden is qualified by our own belonging to the community of sin: for us to proclaim ‘solidarity of guilt’ is to speak about our own guilt as much as the guilt of others. It is on this point that our responsible action differs from Christ’s vicarious representative action. Yet he who was without sin did not seek to avoid guilt. And therefore we cannot even begin to follow Christ in responsible action unless we are willing to bear our neighbour’s guilt also, and thus renounce any attempt at self-justification. And since our sin and guilt have already been suffered and borne by Christ, we are free to do so. The problem with ethical ‘principles’, then, is not only that they tend to distort the unity of reality in Christ (even in the name of Christianizing the world); in our hands principles easily become instruments of self-justification, thereby keeping us from acting responsibly towards our  neighbour.57 For 53 54

55 56 57

Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), pp. 255–6. Bonhoeffer writes that ‘by being responsible for Christ, who is life, before human beings, and only thus, I simultaneously take responsibility for human beings before Christ’. Ibid., p. 256. This sentence is perhaps unfortunate, suggesting as it does a perfect symmetry between our responsibility for/ before Christ on the one hand, and our responsibility for/before our neighbour on the other. What is thus obscured is the fact that our responsibility for each other is derivative of Christ’s ‘vicarious representative action’ towards us – which, as the context clearly suggests, Bonhoeffer certainly would not deny. Ibid., p. 275. Cf. Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, p. 222. Cf. ‘After Ten Years’ (1942) in Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison (London: SCM, 1971), pp. 5–6.

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Bonhoeffer, this does not mean that breaking moral rules or transgressing the law may therefore be taken lightly; those who do remain accountable to God and subject to his judgement. Yet instead of seeking to pre-empt God’s will in our own consciences, we must leave judgement to God.58 (Bonhoeffer had said as much during the Sigtuna meeting.59)

Political responsibility The issues discussed above have implications for political responsibility, too. The fact that Christians are primarily responsible to Christ, even when responding to the ‘basic necessities of life’, suggests that Christian responsibility is never a self-contained principle or ideal. In itself, free responsibility is no more ‘right’, Bonhoeffer argues, than obedience to law and principles: ‘in either case one becomes guilty, and is able to live only by divine grace and forgiveness.  .  .  . Judgment remains with God’.60 And herein lies the distinct character of political responsibility. For Christians, responsibility towards one’s neighbour always involves a willingness to bear his burden of guilt. In a political context, however, it also means a willingness to incur further guilt, as an implication of acting decisively in solidarity with or in defence of fellow-citizens. Nevertheless, what is required in order to accept such guilt is not mere bloody-mindedness – not even in the spirit of Niebuhrian ‘political realism’61 – but rather the courage of Christian discipleship. Thus it becomes clear how in Ethics Bonhoeffer seeks to understand theologically the responsibility he assumed in participating in the work of the resistance. Rather than seeking to justify such action, he interpreted it as a mode of Christ-like appropriation of guilt. It was pointed out earlier, in Section I, that Bonhoeffer (at Sigtuna) articulated repentance in a ‘vicarious’ manner. Acknowledging the fact that he belonged to the German people, he was willing to share in both the guilt and suffering of his compatriots. Instead of distancing himself from his people, he chose to act in their defence through 58 59

60 61

Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), pp. 275, 278. Cf. Bonhoeffer’s words at Sigtuna, as recorded by Bell: ‘There must be punishment by God. . . . We must take this judgment as Christians.’ See Appendix 1. Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), pp. 274–5. Pace Kelly and Nelson who, observing a shift in Bonhoeffer’s thought from pacifism to an ethic of responsibility, claim that later his ethics ‘would lean very heavily on Niebuhr’s “Christian Realism”.’ Geffrey B. Kelly and F. Burton Nelson, The Cost of Moral Leadership: The Spirituality of Dietrich Bonhoeffer (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), p. 108. For a critique of their interpretation, see Clifford J. Green, ‘Pacifism and Tyrannicide: Bonhoeffer’s Christian Peace Ethic’, SCE 18:3 (2005), pp. 31–47. John W. de Gruchy, ‘What kind of pacifist?’ The Christian Century 121:14 (2004), pp. 26–7. Cf. also De Graaff, ‘Overcoming Ethical Abstraction’ (forthcoming 2014).

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political intervention, thereby risking his own life and reputation. In Ethics, however, any such national belonging is rooted in a deeper level of belonging, namely membership of the community of sinners. It is in the light of this ‘double’ belonging, then, that we can understand why Bonhoeffer felt he could not extricate himself from guilt. Furthermore, we now understand better why Bonhoeffer thought repentance would have to be expressed in concrete action, or, inversely, why his participation in the resistance was to be understood as repentance. For, as Bonhoeffer’s discussion in Ethics suggests, bearing the guilt of others cannot be separated from concrete action on their behalf, nor vice versa: we cannot and may not carry the burdens of our neighbour without also accepting their burden of guilt. The above also suggests what enabled Bonhoeffer to accept (shared) responsi­ bility for the considerable violence of any future coup. Plans for such a coup included not only ‘tyrannicide’, but, if necessary, the elimination of the entire Nazi elite as well, with further ‘collateral damage’ surely being inevitable.62 Bonhoeffer might have thought of this, too, when at Sigtuna he spoke of the suffering of the innocent.63 Yet his discussion in ‘History and Good’ suggests that what enabled him to accept guilt was the example of Christ, the ‘vicarious representative’ of humanity. For sinners to follow Christ and carry their neighbour’s burdens requires willingness to take on further guilt in the process. Thus, paradoxically, sinners are liberated by Christ’s example to become even more guilty. Ultimately, however, this freedom lies in the fact that God’s judgement on sin, to which guilty disciples of Christ submit, is the same divine judgement by which they are already vindicated in Christ.

Responsibility in friendship Bonhoeffer’s discussion of responsibility in ‘History and Good’ thus provides an interesting commentary on his involvement in the German resistance during the 1940s. Yet one question remains unanswered. To what extent does Bonhoeffer’s account of responsibility leave room for the suggestion that responsibility, in its more extreme and exceptional form, is only reserved for the most ‘heroic’ of Christians? In ‘History and Good [2]’ Bonhoeffer seeks to distinguish 62

63

See Chapter 2, Section II. Cf. Peter Raina, Bishop George Bell: The Greatest Churchman – A Portrait in Letters (London: Churches Together in Britain and Ireland, 2006), p. 238. On 20 July 1944 the bomb placed by General Von Stauffenberg missed Hitler but killed four others. As for the likely impact of earlier (failed) attempts, see Eberhard Bethge, Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Theologian – Christian  – Contemporary (New York: Fount, 1985), pp. 682–6. See Appendix 1.

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between the heroism of the lone warrior and true Christ-like responsibility. Yet sometimes the difference is not entirely clear.64 At one point he goes as far as admitting that ‘Christian action thus acquires the dark glow of tragic heroism.’65 Indeed, Bonhoeffer’s own life story ended in what is easily portrayed as a tale of ‘tragic heroism’. Despite what he had written about our responsibilities being limited and shaped by Christ’s responsibility towards us, did Bonhoeffer perhaps succumb to the temptation of ‘going it alone’, taking the law in his own hands? While Bonhoeffer may have succumbed, he was also able to voice the despair that can hide beneath any heroic posturing, as in his poem ‘Who Am I?.66 Yet our aim is not to establish whether, or to what extent, Bonhoeffer went down the path of heroism. More interesting is the significance of friendship in relation to the temptation to do so. It is not sufficient simply to point out that Bonhoeffer was not alone in doing what he did, that there were friends near and far who actively supported both him and the resistance more broadly. For even his friend Bell seemed to be fighting lonely battles, as he found himself increasingly at odds with public opinion.67 What is significant, however, is the extent to which their friendship had provided Bell and Bonhoeffer with a basis for their seemingly heroic undertakings. It was suggested previously, in Chapter 6 (Section III), that Bell and Bonhoeffer, during their Sigtuna meeting, did not primarily attend as ‘representatives’ of their respective countries, but first of all served and submitted to each other; and that only in so doing they enabled each other to act vicariously towards their peoples and nations as well. Bell’s presence as a friend willing to hear his confession gave Bonhoeffer the freedom to speak of repentance, while this in turn emboldened Bell to agree to give the support that had been asked of him. However much political responsibility each of them subsequently accepted, this responsibility was rooted in mutual service and submission. Thus Bell already shared in Bonhoeffer’s burden of guilt, even before Bonhoeffer could demonstrate his solidarity with the guilt of his compatriots. Certainly, the way in which Bonhoeffer put his solidarity in practice, through acts of political resistance (eventually leading to his death), might appear ‘heroic’, yet in this case the ‘hero’ is not a solitary figure, acting purely on his own initiative. Instead, the ‘hero’ is someone who knows himself to be accountable to his friend, and whose ability to act in the service of others is sustained by his friend’s service to him. 64 65 66

67

Cf. Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), pp. 221–2, 252, 259, 272–4, 280–1. Ibid., p. 237. Bernd Wannenwetsch (ed.), Who Am I? Bonhoeffer’s Theology through his Poetry (London: T&T Clark, 2009), p. 13. See Chapter 2.

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It  is Bonhoeffer himself who gives expression to this dynamic of mutual support and accountability in the following fragment of his poem ‘The Friend’: Then when the spirit moves a man to great, serene, audacious thoughts of heart and mind, he may look the world in the face with clear eyes and open countenance; then, if action is joined to the spirit – by which alone it stands or falls – from this action, sound and strong, the work grows, giving content to thought and meaning to the life of the man; then the active, lonely man longs for the befriending, understanding spirit of another. Like a clear, fresh flow of water, in which the spirit cleanses itself from the dust of the day, cooled from the burning heat, strengthened in the hour of tiredness – like a fortress, to which after the dangers of battle the spirit retires to find safety, comfort and strength – such is the friend to the friend. And the spirit wants to trust, trust unconditionally. Disgusted by the worm, hidden in the shadows of the good, nourishing itself on envy, scandal and suspicion, and the poisonous tongues of a nest of vipers, who fear and hate and vilify the secret of the free mind, and of the sincere heart. The spirit longs to cleanse itself from all hypocrisy and trust itself to the other spirit totally open, bound to that spirit,

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freely and in truth. Then, ungrudgingly, he will respond, will praise, will give thanks, will find joy and strength in the other spirit. Even under severe pressure and strong rebuke he willingly submits. Not by command, nor by alien laws and doctrines, but by good and earnest counsel, which liberates, the mature man seeks from the true friend. Far or near in success and in failure, the one recognises in the other the true helper towards freedom and humanity.68

Thus the dynamics of friendship among disciples of Christ might avert the danger of responsibility turning into heroism, the danger of Christian service being isolated from, and therefore no longer governed by, Christ’s response to the world. The significance of friendship is that it brings the order of mutual submission to bear on political responsibility: what might otherwise become a task threatening to crush its bearer is now drawn into the sphere of the body of Christ, and transformed by its ‘friendly’ politics.69 Again, it is Bonhoeffer himself who acknowledges the need for responsibility to be embedded in and limited by reciprocity. This time, however, the emphasis on mutuality is found in ‘History and Good [2]’: [O]ther people who are encountered must be regarded as responsible as well. What distinguishes responsibility from violation is this very fact of recognizing other people as responsible persons, indeed making them aware of their own responsibility. . . . There can never be an absolute responsibility that does not find its essential limit in the responsibility of the other person.70 68 69 70

Wannenwetsch (ed.), Who Am I?, pp. 95–7. See also Appendix 3. Cf. Chapter 6, Section III. Bonhoeffer, Ethics (2005), p. 269.

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Bonhoeffer is thus hinting at the dynamic of mutual service and submission, discussed extensively in Chapter 6. This, together with the interpretation of the interaction between Bell and Bonhoeffer at Sigtuna, suggests that friendship helps disciples of Christ remain true to the basis of their responsibility, namely Christ. While Christ calls them to accept responsibility in society towards fellow-citizens, friendship can prevent them from turning into would-be (Christian) heroes. It may well be that in extraordinary situations such as those encountered by Bonhoeffer ‘the institutional bonds of political action are lost and the responsible actor finds him or herself delivered to God’s judgment alone’.71 Yet Bonhoeffer’s case suggests that where institutional bonds fall away, friends may remain, reminding each other of God’s judgement, and helping each other to act in obedience to it.

III  Conclusion This study began, in the first chapter, with an initial exploration of friendship’s political dimension, including valid theological misgivings about too close an identification between politics and friendship. The second chapter introduced the story of Bell and Bonhoeffer, a story of friendship that would function as ‘case study’ in subsequent chapters. While this chapter presented some initial observations concerning the ‘parapolitical’ character of their friendship (Section III), it was especially in subsequent chapters that the task of establishing appropriate concepts for this task was undertaken in more detail. Chapter 3 suggested that the parapolitical character of friendship lies in its dynamics of ‘common action’, involving as it does mutual dependence and empowerment. In Chapters 4 and 5 these findings were further specified with an extensive discussion of judgement as the primary political act, including various modes in which Bell and Bonhoeffer might have exercised judgement together  – particularly during their secret meeting at Sigtuna (1942). It became clear, however, that Bell and Bonhoeffer did not intend to seize the task of judgement from the secular authorities, but rather understood their actions as answerable to God’s judgement. With a view to exploring to what extent their obedience might still bear political significance, the focus in Chapter 6 shifted to the life of the church, and in particular to the mode of judgement implied in the church’s practices. The story of Bell and Bonhoeffer was found to be primarily 71

Heuser, ‘Cost of Citizenship’, p. 65.

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illustrative of such ecclesial judgement, a mode of judgement that is embodied in practices of mutual service and submission. These findings were supplemented in the present chapter by two examples of the distinct significance of particular friendships in relation to the church’s political witness: first, in regard to the way church governs itself and, secondly, with regard to the political responsibility of individual Christians. This explorative journey could also be described as one that began in the sphere of society and public life (Chapter 3), then moved on to the specific task of government within that sphere (Chapters 4 and 5), to arrive, finally, at the church (Chapters 6 and 7). While this trajectory suggests a gradual narrowing of focus, the eventual focus on the life of the church (and, in close relation to it, Christian citizenship) does not necessarily mean that the earlier stages of the journey can be dismissed as no longer relevant. First of all, judgement, as the task of (secular) government (Chapters 4 and 5), remains relevant for this study; not only insofar as this task stands in contrast with the ‘friendly’ way in which judgement is exercised within the church, but also because that office is ultimately a reminder and representation of God’s judgement, as revealed supremely in Christ’s death and resurrection – and to which the church defers in its corporate life. Furthermore, with regard to friendship as a component of society, it was noted in Chapter 6 that friendship as established by Jesus does not so much negate as sustain and transform creaturely practices of friendship (e.g., as observed and commended by Aristotle). Indeed, the earlier discussion of common action in friendship, in Chapter 3, helps in recognizing exactly what changes when Christ enters our friendships: friends find a freedom to serve – and to submit to each other’s service – beyond their personal ‘resources’ for sacrifice and forbearance. Thus, in offering an account of friendly communion, Chapter 3 also offered an insight into a key aspect of, and basis for, society. Such understanding of society is not superseded by the account of the church presented in Chapter 6 – as if, that is, the church were a distinct ‘association’ within society, or indeed an alternative society. The church is not ‘a’ society, but God’s ἐkklhsίa: a community ‘called’ to point towards and anticipate what society (including the life of friendship) will one day be. The church is to reveal, as O’Donovan puts it, ‘the final form of human society’.72 Resurrection in Christ involves the restoration and perfection of God’s fallen creation, including human society, rather than its replacement. Correspondingly, the account of the church presented in Chapter 6 is meant as

72

O’Donovan, Ways of Judgment, p. 240.

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affirming the role of friendship in society more generally, even though friendship is given a new basis, namely Christ’s gift of friendship.73 That said, the church is also called to challenge the ‘world’ to submit to God’s judgement in Christ, and allow the rule of Christ to transform social life. Stanley Hauerwas once commented (in a lecture on Bonhoeffer’s poem ‘The Friend’) that ‘friendship is the church’s gift to the world for redemptive politics’.74 This study could be described as an exercise of unpacking this evocative though enigmatic observation. Of course, the reality of friendship entails more than what Hauerwas has in mind in speaking of ‘the church’s gift to the world’.75 As suggested earlier, there are many friends who have not entered the community of Jesus’ disciples, and were found instead at the heart of other political bodies – in Aristotle’s polis, for example, or in Arendt’s ‘public realm’. In these contexts, too, friendship can fulfil a parapolitical role, as shown in earlier chapters, occupying a liminal position in relation to the political task of government. Hence, friendship can only be the church’s gift to the world insofar as it is first Christ’s gift - that is, his gift to the church, including its implications for the church’s politics. The gift of friendship, then, is a gift to the church before it can become a gift from the church to the world. It sets the church apart as a very different ‘body politic’ alongside the nations of the world, equipping it for ‘friendly’ practices that bear witness to God’s judgement and thereby challenge the judgements of the nations and their political representatives. Yet, as Hauerwas’s phrase ‘redemptive politics’ suggests, this gift not only challenges the nations and their representatives, but also allows for a positive alternative. Just as any friendship can be a sphere of common action, and indeed a ‘company of judgement’, the church, too, is a community that involves corporate activity and the common exercise of judgement. Instead of claiming its own ‘seat’ of judgement, the church receives, participates in and indeed ‘owns’ God’s judgement, through its friendly practices of mutual service and submission. The gift of friendship is a gift of common judgement. This tension between judging and not-judging, we saw, is exemplified in the story of George Bell and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and in the Sigtuna episode in particular. In addition, there story 73

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Summers speaks of friendship being ‘trans-signified’: ‘[A]lthough what friendship means is not being changed, what friendship means in the context of a network of Christian discipleship takes on a new significance.’ Steve Summers, Friendship: Exploring its Implications for the Church in Postmodernity (ed. Gerard Mannion; Ecclesiological Investigations, vol. 7, London: T&T Clark, 2009), p. 171. Hauerwas’s lecture has since been published in Wannenwetsch (ed.), Who Am I?, pp. 91–113. Cf. Hauerwas’s discussion of classical wisdom about friendship in: Stanley Hauerwas and Charles Pinches, Christians among the Virtues: Theological Conversations with Ancient and Modern Ethics (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), pp. 70–88.

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suggests that within the life of the church more generally, particular friendships and friends can play an important role in reminding the church of its distinct political existence (above, Section I), and in preserving mutual accountability in extraordinary political circumstances in wider society (Section  II). Thus friendship, even friendship as an expression of Christian discipleship, is anything but a retreat from political society, or indeed from the realm of secular politics. Precisely in helping each other obey God’s judgement, Bell and especially Bonhoeffer were able to bear the burden of political responsibility in personally costly ways. In this, their friendship, as a particular embodiment of Christ’s church, offered a foretaste of future peace and reconciliation. Herein lies the specifically theological dimension of friendship’s parapolitical nature. As suggested in Chapter 6, in addition to functioning alongside, in support of, or as the beginning of conventional (secular) political processes, friendship is also ahead of these processes. In other words, politics in Christ-shaped friendship is ‘suberabundant’ compared with conventional, secular politics. This sheds further light on Hauerwas’s final point, namely that friendship is a gift for redemptive politics. Friendship, transformed and sustained by Christ, draws human political acts and practices into a sphere where they can take part in God’s redemptive action in fallen creation. It is in this sense, finally, that friendship, as Hauerwas suggests, can also be a gift to the world.

Appendix 1 Excerpt from Bell’s Diary

[notes for 31st May 1942] Schönfeld joined us later, and Ehrenström, Dietrich, Manfred Björkquist, Harry Johansson and he and I, joined in general conversation. Schönfeld said it was impossible to tell the number of those opposing. The point was that key positions were held by members of opposition and that key positions in Germany itself are of chief importance. The coup should be carried through in two or three days. All ministries contained such keymen on our side. One of the most important services was radio, and the wireless building would be occupied by Opposition. Close links with State Police. Keymen {are around} in big factories, water, gas etc. I thought on document giving background. Opposition in existence some time – not only the war has prepared the opportunity and it crystallized last autumn. Some numbers of auxiliary cadres – members of opposition know of plot of the A. If leaders of Allies feel themselves responsibility for fate of millions in occupied countries they will consider very earnestly means of preventing great crimes against this [these?] people. (Was attempt on Heydrich, who was designated as commissar (?) for France, part of this movement?). Allies remember Germany holds 1000 Miles of Russian territory. Stalin could be satisfied in the boundary question, if Allies by cooperation with Soviet government can give guarantee that peaceful cooperation will be possible with Germany (?). German high officers have been impressed by Soviet Russian elite and believed in possibility of understanding. Germans in opposition hope Russia no longer imperialistic. What would help very much would be a statement by Christian leaders of Britain giving their demands for a new cooperation with Russia – a live church etc. Could this be made known through neutral channels (’t Hooft, e.g.). Dietrich commented on Schönfelds views in following way. Christian conscience not quite at ease with Schönfeld’s ideas. There must be punishment by God. We should not be worthy, of such a solution. We do not

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want to escape repentance. Our action to be such as will be understood as act of repentance and spoken out. Have been speaking to families whose anti-Nazi sons have been killed in Poland and ask why? He replied: our innocent ones suffer, as the innocent Poles suffer. Christians do not wish to escape repentance, or chaos if God wills to bring it on us. We must take this judgment as Christians. We take this act as fact of repentance; importance of declaring repentance (which I stressed). I also spoke of importance of Allied Armies occupying Berlin. Schönfeld agreed, but it would be a great help if they were to come – and to help; great difficulties certain to arise. Allied Armies valuable as mediators – keeping control. Their cooperation with German army against reactionary or hostile forces. It would make a great difference if they occupied for assistance, not as conquering army. Very useful if neutral armies could be brought in – for example, Swedish. Great danger will arise after armistice – vengeance – the churches in Holland are preparing a human wall against a terror; fear of 300,000 Dutch being killed in one night. Similarly in Norway group of Berggrav in touch with German Army group as to situation which will arise when Nazi regime breaks down (Berggrav and Norwegian High Court President and infantry German officer of rank of major). Would England favour Monarchy in Germany? {There is} possible Prince Louis Ferdinand, the Crown Prince’s eldest son died in heroic way. Hitler sent for other sons. Louis Ferdinand was fetched from USA where he had been working in Ford factory, as workman. He now lives on farm in East Prussia, Dietrich knows him, he is Christian, and has outspoken social interests. [‘Bell’s notes for this day continue beyond this point. For the full text, see the source shown below’.]

Source: Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Conspiracy and Imprisonment: 1940-1945 (ed. Mark S. Brocker; trans. Lisa E. Dahill; Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 16, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006), pp. 297–301. By permission of Fortress Press.

Appendix 2 Die Stuttgarter Schulderklärung/ The Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt

Die Stuttgarter Schulderklärung Der Rat der EKD begrübt bei seiner Sitzung am 18./19. Oktober 1945 in Stuttgart Vertreter des Ökumenischen Rates der Kirchen: Wir sind für diesen Besuch um so dankbarer, als wir uns mit unserem Volke nicht nur in einer Gemeinschaft der Leiden wissen, sondern auch in einer Solidarität der Schuld. Mit grobem Schmerz sagen wir: Durch uns ist unendliches Leid über viele Völker und Länder gebracht worden. Was wir unseren Gemeinden oft bezeugt haben, das sprechen wir jetzt im Namen der ganzen Kirche aus: Wohl haben wir lange Jahre hindurch im Namen Jesu Christi gegen den Geist gekämpft, der im nationalsozialistischen Gewaltregiment seinen furchtbaren Ausdruck gefunden hat; aber wir klagen uns an, dab wir nicht mutiger bekannt, nicht treuer gebetet, nicht fröhlicher geglaubt und nicht brennender geliebt haben. Nun soll in unseren Kirchen ein neuer Anfang gemacht werden. Gegründet auf die Heilige Schrift, mit ganzem Ernst ausgerichtet auf den alleinigen Herrn der Kirche, gehen sie daran, sich von glaubensfremden Einflüssen zu reinigen und sich selber zu ordnen. Wir hoffen zu dem Gott der Gnade und Barmherzigkeit, dab er unsere Kirchen als sein Werkzeug brauchen und ihnen Vollmacht geben wird, sein Wort zu verkündigen und seinem Willen Gehorsam zu schaffen bei uns selbst und bei unserem ganzen Volk. Dab wir uns bei diesem neuen Anfang mit den anderen Kirchen der ökumenischen Gemeinschaft herzlich verbunden wissen dürfen, erfüllt uns mit tiefer Freude. Wir hoffen zu Gott, dab durch den gemeinsamen Dienst der Kirchen dem Geist der Gewalt und der Vergeltung, der heute von neuem mächtig werden will, in aller Welt gesteuert werde und der Geist des Friedens und der Liebe

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zur Herrschaft komme, in dem allein die gequälte Menschheit Genesung finden kann. So bitten wir in einer Stunde, in der die ganze Welt einen neuen Anfang bracht: Veni, creator spiritus! Stuttgart, 18./19. Oktober 1945 gez. D. Wurm Dr. Heinemann Asmussen DD. Smend D.Dr. D. Meiser Dibelius

Dr. Lilje Martin Niemöller Hahn Lic. Niesel Held

Source: Martin Greschat (ed.), Im Zeichen der Schuld. 40 Jahre Stuttgarter Schuldbekenntnis: Eine Dokumentation (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1985), p. 45.

The Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt (translation by Gordon Rupp) The Council of the Evangelical Church in Germany at its session in Stuttgart on 18th October 1945 greets the representatives of the World Council of Churches. We are more thankful for this visit because we know ourselves to be united together with our people, not only in a solidarity of suffering, but also in a solidarity of guilt. With great pain do we say: through us endless suffering has been brought upon many peoples and lands. What we have often witnessed to in our congregations, we speak now in the name of the whole Church. We have indeed through long years fought in the name of Jesus Christ against the spirit which found its fearful expression in the Nazi tyranny; but we accuse ourselves that we did not confess more boldly, did not pray more truly, did not believe more joyfully and have not loved more ardently. Now, in faith, a new beginning must be made in our churches. Grounded in Holy Scripture, with all earnestness looking to the only Lord of the Church, we go about to cleanse the Church from strange influences and to set our house in order. We hope that the God of grace and mercy may use our Churches as His instrument and will give them authority

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to preach His Word, and to create obedience to His will among ourselves and in our whole nation. It fills us with deep joy that in this new beginning we may know ourselves to be bound in solidarity with the ecumenical movement. We hope to God that through this common service of the Churches, the spirit of violence and of revenge which is once again active in our midst, may be abated in the whole world and the spirit of peace and love may come to triumph, in which alone tormented mankind can find healing. So we pray to God in an hour when the whole world needs a new beginning: Veni Creator Spiritus. Stuttgart, 18th October 1945

Source: Gordon Rupp, ‘I Seek My Brethren’: Bishop Bell and the German Churches (London: Epworth Press, 1974), p. 25.

Appendix 3 ‘Der Freund’/‘The Friend’

‘Der Freund’ Nicht aus dem schweren Boden, wo Blut und Geslecht und Schwur mächtig und heilig sind, wo die Erde selbst gegen Wahnsinn und Frevel die geweihten uralten Ordnungen hütet und schützt und rächt, – nicht aus dem schweren Boden der Erde, sondern aus freiem Gefallen und freiem Verlangen des Geistes, der nicht des Eides noch des Gesetzes bedarf, wird der Freund dem Freunde geschenkt. Neben dem nährenden Weizenfeld, welches die Menschen ehrfürchtig bauen und pflegen, dem sie den Schweiß ihrer Arbeit und, wenn es sein muß, das Blut ihrer Leiber zum Opfer bringen, neben dem Acker des täglichen Brotes lassen die Menschen doch auch die schöne Kornblume blühn. Keiner hat sie gepflanzt, keiner begossen, schutzlos wächst sie in Freiheit und in heiterer Zuversicht, daß man das Leben unter dem weiten Himmel ihr gönne. Neben dem Nötigen,

Appendix 3 aus gewichtigem irdischem Stoff Geformten, neben der Ehe, der Arbeit, dem Schwert, will auch der Freie leben und der Sonne entgegen wachsen. Nicht nur die reife Frucht, auch Blüten sind schön. Ob die Blüte der Frucht, ob die Frucht der Blüte nur diene, wer weiß es? Doch sind uns beide gegeben. Kostbarste, seltenste Blüte – der Freiheit des spielenden, wagenden und vertrauenden Geistes in glücklicher Stunde entsprungen, – ist dem Freunde der Freund. Spielgefährten zuerst auf den weiten Fahrten des Geistes in wunderbare, entfernte Reiche, die im Schleier der Morgensonne wie Gold erglänzen, denen am heißen Mittag die leichten Wolken des blauen Himmels entgegenziehen, die in erregender Nacht beim Scheine der Lampe wie verborgene heimliche Schätze den Suchenden locken. Wenn dann der Geist dem Menschen mit großen, heiteren, kühnen Gedanken Herz und Stirne berührt, daß er mit klaren Augen und freier Gebärde der Welt ins Gesicht schaut, wenn dann dem Geiste die Tat entspringt, – der jeder allein steht oder fällt, – wenn aus der Tat stark und gesund das Werk erwächst,

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das dem Leben des Mannes Inhalt und Sinn gibt, dann verlangt es den handelnden, wirkenden, einsamen Menschen nach dem befreundeten und verstehenden Geist. Wie ein klares, frisches Gewässer, darin der Geist sich vom Staube des Tages reinigt, darin er von glühenden Hitze sich kühlt und in der Stunde der Müdigkeit stählt, – wie eine Burg, in die nach Gefahr und Verwirrung der Geist zurückkehrt, in der er Zuflucht, Zuspruch und Stärkung findet, ist dem Freunde der Freund. Und der Geist will vertrauen, ohne Grenzen vertrauen. Angeekelt von dem Gewürm, das in Schatten des Guten von Neid und Argwohn und Neugier sich nährt, von dem Schlangengezisch vergifteter Zungen, die das Geheimnis des freien Gedankens, des aufrichtigen Herzens fürchten, hassen und schmähn, verlangt es den Geist, alle Verstellung von sich zu werfen und sich vertrautem Geiste gänzlich zu offenbaren, ihm frei und treu zu verbünden. Neidlos will er bejahen, will anerkennen, will danken, will sich freuen und stärken am anderen Geist. Doch auch strengem Maß und strengem Vorwurf beugt er sich willig. Nicht Befehle, nicht zwingende fremde Gesetze und Lehren, aber den Rat, den guten, den ernsten, der frei macht,

Appendix 3 sucht der gereifte Mann von der Treue des Freundes. Fern oder nah in Glück oder Unglück erkennt der eine im anderen den treuen Helfer zur Freiheit und Menschlichkeit.

Am 28.8. Morgens Als die Sirenen heulten um Mitternacht, habe ich still und lange an dich gedacht, wie es dir gehen mag und wie es einst war, und daß ich dir Heimkehr wünsche im neuen Jahr. Nach langem Schweigen höre ich um halb zwei die Signale, daß die Gefahr vorüber sei. Ich habe darin ein freundliches Zeichen gesehn, daß alle Gefahren leise an dir vorübergehn.

‘The Friend’ (translation by Edwin Robertson) Not from the hard ground, where blood and race and binding oath are sacred and powerful; where the very earth itself keeps guard and defends the consecrated orders of creation against the madness and frenzy of disorder; not from the hard ground of the earth, but freely chosen and desired, the longing of the spirit, which neither duty nor law requires, the friend will offer to the friend. Beside the nourishing field of corn, which men faithfully plant and tend,

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labouring and sweating in the field, and, if needs be, sacrifice their life’s blood; beside the field of daily bread, those same men also leave the lovely cornflower to bloom. No one planted, nor watered it, defenceless it grows in freedom and supremely confident that it will be allowed to live under the open sky and undisturbed. Beside the necessary growth produced from heavy, earthy work, beside marriage, work and sword, the unplanned will also flourish, and grow towards the sun. Not only the ripening fruit, but also flowers are beautiful. Whether the fruit serves the flower or the flower the fruit only – who knows? Yet both are given to us. Costly, rare blooms – sprung from the freedom of the playful, brave and trusting spirit in a happy hour – such is the friend to the friend. Playful, at first, on the far journeys of the spirit, into wonderful, distant realms, which in the haze of the morning sun glitter like gold; but in the heat of the day are by thin clouds in a blue sky encompassed; while in the stirrings of the night, lit only by the lamp,

Appendix 3 like hidden private treasures, they beckon the seeker. Then when the spirit moves a man to great, serene, audacious thoughts of heart and mind, he may look the world in the face with clear eyes and open countenance; then, if action is joined to the spirit – by which alone it stands or falls – from this action, sound and strong, the work grows, giving content to thought and meaning to the life of the man; then the active, lonely man longs for the befriending, understanding spirit of another. Like a clear, fresh flow of water, in which the spirit cleanses itself from the dust of the day, cooled from the burning heat, strengthened in the hour of tiredness – like a fortress, to which after the dangers of battle the spirit retires to find safety, comfort and strength – such is the friend to the friend. And the spirit wants to trust, trust unconditionally. Disgusted by the worm, hidden in the shadows of the good, nourishing itself on envy, scandal and suspicion, and the poisonous tongues of a nest of vipers, who fear and hate and vilify the secret of the free mind, and of the sincere heart. The spirit longs to cleanse itself from all hypocrisy and trust itself to the other spirit totally open, bound to that spirit,

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freely and in truth. Then, ungrudgingly, he will respond, will praise, will give thanks, will find joy and strength in the other spirit. Even under severe pressure and strong rebuke he willingly submits. Not by command, nor by alien laws and doctrines, but by good and earnest counsel, which liberates, the mature man seeks from the true friend. Far or near in success and in failure, the one recognises in the other the true helper towards freedom and humanity.

Addendum written on the morning of 28th August: At the midnight hour, the hideous siren’s song, I thought of you in silence and for long. how you fare now and how once you were and that I wish you home for the New Year. At half past one, the silence ended at last, I heard the siren’s cry, all danger past. In that I have seen a kindly omen thereby, that all danger will surely pass you by.

Source: Bernd Wannenwetsch (ed.), Who Am I? Bonhoeffer’s Theology through his Poetry (London: T&T Clark, 2009), pp. 92–9.

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Moses, John A., ‘Bonhoeffer’s Germany: The Political Context’, in The Cambridge Companion to Dietrich Bonhoeffer (ed. John W. de Gruchy; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 3–21. Mulgan, Richard, ‘The Role of Friendship in Aristotle’s Political Theory’, in The Challenge to Friendship in Modernity (ed. Preston King and Heather Devere; London: Frank Cass, 2000), pp. 15–32. Nelson, Geffrey B. Kelly and F. Burton, The Cost of Moral Leadership: The Spirituality of Dietrich Bonhoeffer (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003). Nicgorski, Walter, ‘Cicero’s Distinctive Voice on Friendship: De Amicitia and De Republica’, in Friendship & Politics: Essays in Political Thought (ed. John von Heyking and Richard Avramenko; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), pp. 84–111. Nygren, Anders, Agape and Eros (trans. Philip S. Watson; London: SPCK, 1957). O’Callaghan, Paul D., The Feast of Friendship (Wichita, KS: Eighth Day Press, 2002). O’Donovan, Oliver, The Desire of the Nations: Rediscovering the Roots of Political Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). O’Donovan, Oliver, The Just War Revisited (Current Issues in Theology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). O’Donovan, Oliver, On the Thirty-Nine Articles: A Conversation with Tudor Christianity (London: SCM Press, 2011). O’Donovan, Oliver, ‘Response to Bernd Wannenwetsch’, in A Royal Priesthood? The Use of the Bible Ethically and Politically (ed. C. Bartholomew et al., Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2002), pp. 221–4. O’Donovan, Oliver, Resurrection and Moral Order (Leicester: Apollos, 1994). O’Donovan, Oliver, The Ways of Judgment (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005). O’Donovan, Oliver and Joan Lockwood O’Donovan, Bonds of Imperfection: Christian Politics, Past and Present (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004). O’Donovan, Oliver and Joan Lockwood O’Donovan, From Irenaeus to Grotius: A Sourcebook in Chrtistian Political Thought (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999). Pakaluk, Michael (ed.), Other Selves: Philosophers on Friendship (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1991). Pinches, Charles and Stanley Hauerwas, Christians among the Virtues: Theological Conversations with Ancient and Modern Ethics (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997). Price, A. W., Love and Friendship in Plato and Aristotle (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989). Putnam, Robert D., Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community (New York: Touchstone, 2000). Raina, Peter, Bishop George Bell: The Greatest Churchman – A Portrait in Letters (London: Churches Together in Britain and Ireland, 2006). Reinders, Hans S., Receiving the Gift of Friendship: Profound Disability, Theological Anthropology, and Ethics (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008).

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Richardson Lear, Gabriel, Happy Lives and the Highest Good: An Essay on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004). Robertson, Edwin, Unshakeable Friend (London: CCBI, 1995). Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, The Social Contract (trans. Christopher Betts; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994). Rupp, Gordon, ‘I seek my brethren’: Bishop Bell and the German Churches (London: Epworth Press, 1974). Salkever, Stephen, ‘Taking Friendship Seriously: Aristotle on the Place(s) of Philia in Human Life’, in Friendship & Politics. Essays in Political Thought (ed. John von Heyking and Richard Avramenko; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), pp. 53–83. Schindler, Jeanne Heffernan, ‘A Companionship of Caritas: Friendship in St. Thomas Aquinas’, in Friendship and Politics (ed. John von Heyking and Richard Avramenko; Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 2008), pp. 139–62. Schlingensiepen, Ferdinand, Dietrich Bonhoeffer 1906–1945. Martyr, Thinker, Man of Resistance (trans. Isabel Best; London: T&T Clark, 2010). Schnackenburg, Rudolf, The Gospel According to St John: Commentary on Chapters 13–21 (Herder’s Theological Commentary of the New Testament, vol. 3, London: Burns & Oates, 1982). Schollmeier, Paul, Other Selves: Aristotle on Personal and Political Friendship (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994). Schwartz, Daniel, Aquinas on Friendship (Oxford Philosophical Monographs, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007). Schwarzenbach, Sybil A., ‘Civic Friendship: A Critique of Recent Care Theory’, Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 10:2 (2007), pp. 233–55. Slack, Kenneth, George Bell (London: SCM Press, 1971). Smith Pangle, Lorraine, Aristotle and the Philosophy of Friendship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). Spaemann, Robert, Essays in Anthropology: Variations on a Theme (trans. Guido de Graaff and James Mumford; Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2010). Spaemann, Robert, Glück und Wohlwollen (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1989). Stern-Gillet, Suzanne, Aristotle’s Philosophy of Friendship (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995). Summers, Steve, Friendship. Exploring its Implications for the Church in Postmodernity (ed. Gerard Mannion; Ecclesiological Investigations, vol. 7, London: T&T Clark, 2009). Townsend, Nicholas, ‘Government and Social Infrastructure’, in God and Government (ed. Nick Spencer and Jonathan Chaplin; London: SPCK, 2009), pp. 108–33. Van der Zweerde, Evert, ‘Friendship and the Political’, Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 10:2 (2007), pp. 147–65. Vernon, Mark, The Philosophy of Friendship (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005).

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Villa, Dana, ‘Introduction: The Development of Arendt’s Political Thought’, in The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt (ed. Dana Villa; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 1–21. Von Heyking, John, ‘The Luminous Path of Friendship: Augustine’s Account of Friendship and Political Order’, in Friendship & Politics (ed. John von Heyking and Richard Avramenko; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), pp. 115–38. Wadell, Paul, Friendship and the Moral Life (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1989). Waldron, Jeremy, ‘Arendt’s Constitutional Politics’, in The Cambridge Companion to Hanna Arendt (ed. Dana Villa; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 201–19. Wannenwetsch, Bernd, ‘Members of One Another: Charis, Ministry and Representation. A Politico-Ecclesial Reading of Romans 12’, in A Royal Priesthood? The Use of the Bible Ethically and Politically (ed. C. Bartholomew et al.; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2002), pp. 196–220. Wannenwetsch, Bernd, Political Worship: Ethics for Christian Citizens (Oxford Studies in Theological Ethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). Wannenwetsch, Bernd, ‘“Responsible Living” or “Responsible Self ”? Bonhoefferian Reflections on a Vexed Moral Notion’, SCE 18:3 (2005), pp. 125–40. Wannenwetsch, Bernd (ed.), Who Am I? Bonhoeffer’s Theology through his Poetry (London: T&T Clark, 2009). Waters, Brent, The Family in Christian Social and Political Thought (ed. Oliver O’Donovan; Oxford Studies in Theological Ethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007). Witoszek, Nina, ‘Friendship and Revolution in Poland: The Eros and Ethos of the Committee for Workers’ Defense (KOR)’, Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 10:2 (2007), pp. 215–31. Young-Bruehl, Elisabeth, Hannah Arendt: For Love of the World (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982).

Index action, as process  76–8 aesthetic judgement  111–14, 143–5 agape  23, 157, 161 agency  70–2, 77, 101, 133 corporate  73–4 mutual enhancement of  79, 82 political  93, 102, 116 spontaneity of  76 Aquinas, Thomas  23, 66n. 11, 158n. 14 Arendt, Hannah  7, 8, 58n. 79, 62, 90–1, 95n. 4, 99n. 18, 103–6, 130nn. 22–4, 131, 132n. 35, 134, 136–8, 141–6, 150n. 90, 151n. 97, 183n. 12, 202 ‘The Crisis in Culture’  112, 114, 143 Eichmann in Jerusalem  130 The Human Condition  5–6, 63, 74, 75, 82, 93, 94, 96–8, 105, 106, 113–14, 120, 145 ‘On Humanity in Dark Times’  119, 122 Lectures on Kant’s Political Philosophy  143 The Life of the Mind  93, 142 The Origins of Totalitarianism  106, 145 ‘Personal Responsibility Under Dictatorship’  106 on politics as acting together  74–86 On Revolution  84n. 84 ‘Some Questions of Moral Philosophy’  117, 122, 143 ‘Thinking and Moral Considerations’  108, 118 ‘Truth and Politics’  143 see also judgement Aristotle  2–3, 7, 8, 12, 23–4, 33–5, 62, 72, 79, 86, 117n. 88, 158n. 14, 163n. 31, 168n. 40, 172, 202 discussion of friendship  64–9 Ethics  31, 64–5, 68, 69, 74, 80–1 on friends acting together  69–72

Nicomachean Ethics  4, 5, 31, 63–4, 86 Politics  31, 32, 34, 36, 67, 69 on public life, politics, and friendship  73–4 Ascension Day Message  49–50, 87 Asmussen, Hans  183n. 13, 184, 187n. 29 Augustine  91n. 100, 107, 137n. 50 The City of God  24–5, 27, 31n. 56 Augustinian objection  25–7 Avramenko, Richard Friendship & Politics  23 Backström, Joel  1n. 4, 12n. 1, 13n. 4, 35n. 69, 157n. 11, 161n. 24, 163n. 31 Baker, A. E.  40n. 4 banal thoughtlessness  108 Barmen Declaration  45, 87 Barmen Synod  44 Barrett, C. K.  156n. 6, 158n. 14 Barth, Karl  184n. 18 Bash, Anthony  132n. 35, 137n. 47, 139n. 53, 186 Bathory, Nancy L. Schwartz  3n. 9 Beck, Ludwig  54n. 63, 130 beginning, notion of  76 Beiner, Ronald  70n. 23, 116–17, 134n. 41, 143n. 61, 146 Political Judgment  116 Bell, George  5–8, 37, 45, 134–5, 138–42, 147, 149, 152, 174–8, 184, 188–90, 197, 200, 203 diary of, excerpt from  205–6 friendship with Bonhoeffer  46–62 acting together  86–8 public life and politics  89–91 life of  39–42 Bell, Robert R.  1n. 2 Benhabib, Seyla  108n. 55 Berggrav, Eivind  41 Berlin Circle  54, 130

226

Index

Bethge, Eberhard  44n. 16, 45nn. 20, 22, 46n. 23, 48, 49n. 36, 50n. 43, 52nn. 52–4, 56, 54n. 62, 55nn. 64, 67, 56n. 73, 57nn. 75, 77, 58n. 80, 59n. 83, 72n. 33, 130n. 25, 131nn. 27, 31, 133n. 37, 183n. 16, 196n. 62 Bible, references to  6–7, 24, 37, 97, 100, 103, 113n. 73, 148, 150n. 93, 151, 185, 186, 189, 194 see also ecclesial judgement Biggar, Nigel  16n. 10 Björquist, Manfred  54 body politic  74, 166, 168–9, 202 Bonhoeffer, Dietrich  5–8, 37, 39, 100n. 23, 107, 109n. 60, 129–35, 138–42, 147, 148n. 86, 149, 151n. 94, 152, 155n. 2, 163n. 30, 165n. 32, 174–8, 180–2, 185, 187–94, 203, 205–6 Ethics  7, 131, 190, 192, 195–7, 199–200 ‘The Friend’  198–9, 210–16 friendship with Bell  46–62 acting together  86–8 public life and politics  89–91 ‘Guilt, Justification, Renewal’  184, 186 life of  42–6 Life Together  169–70, 177 boundlessness, of action  77, 83, 84, 98n. 17 Canovan, Margaret  145n. 76 Carmichael, E. D. H.  2n. 6, 157n. 11 charisma  170–1 Christian pacifism  58 Christian political thought traditions  23–5 ‘Ciceronian logic’  160 avoiding of  34–6 friendship based on  57–9 Cicero  25, 65, 163n. 31 On Friendship (Laelius de Amicitia)  35 citizen’s arrest  104 city and friendship, of Aristotle  65–9 civic friendship  4–5, 11, 18–20, 22, 24, 28, 36, 67 attack on  25–7 as idolatry  30–4

civic relations  17–19 Clements, Keith W.  44n. 18, 127n. 15, 141n. 56 collective guilt  132n. 35, 183 Committee for Workers’ Defence (KOR)  22 common action  5–6, 63 see also Arendt, Hannah; Aristotle common good  15, 26, 63, 71 friendship, politics and  28–30 common judgement  93 and friends in dark times  119–22 and friendship  116–17, 122 and judgement as political act  99–111 and judicious company  117–19 and Kantian aesthetics  111–14 and political aesthetics  114–16 and responding to evil  93–9 common sense  113–16, 121–2, 145, 146n. 77 loss of  127 concord  66–70, 72–3, 80, 86 Confessing Church movement  44–5, 47, 49–50, 87, 124, 182 confession  137, 149, 176, 180–3, 197, 208 of guilt  131n. 30, 137, 138, 175, 181, 185–7 personal  175, 181, 186, 187 public  182 conscience  108, 109, 192–3, 195 Christian  55, 205 Cooper, John M.  1n. 4, 65n. 5, 71–2, 74n. 37 Council of the Evangelical Church  180, 208 Cranfield, C. E. B.  165nn. 33, 35, 167n. 37, 168n. 42 Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy  18, 22 Crossman, R. H. S.  58n. 79 Deissmann, Adolf  41 Dennis, Peter  3n. 9 Derrida, Jacques  35–6, 58, 64, 69, 76n. 45, 120n. 100 Devere, Heather  3n. 9 dialogic democracy  22 Dibelius, Otto  183

Index Dietz, Mary G.  98n. 17, 106n. 42 diplomacy  60, 62, 88, 102, 125, 134, 175, 176, 189 and repentance  129–33 discernment  43, 134, 135, 142, 144, 146n. 77, 151–3, 165–7, 170–2, 176–8 corporate  167 Dohnanyi, Hans von  45, 54 Duck, Steve  1n. 2 duty  44, 107, 149n. 88 ecclesial judgement  153 Jesus’ gift of friendship and  153–64 judgement received in friendship and  172–8 and mutual submission in service  164–72 Eden, Anthony  55, 57 Ehrenström, Nils  54 Eichmann, Adolf  107–8, 111 Eliot, T. S. Murder in the Cathedral  40 emergency judgement  6, 7, 104, 116, 122, 123, 125, 126, 190 empowerment  82, 120 mutual  84, 87–8, 173, 200 see also power Engels, Friedrich  72n. 33 faith, measures of  167–8 forgiveness  6, 84n. 81, 147–9, 152, 174–6, 178, 182, 185–6, 188, 195 absence of  100 genuine  141 and judgement  96, 100, 136–40 power of  97 and promising  94–6, 138n. 51 and punishment  96–7 as remedy  98 unconditional  137 Frazer, Elizabeth  90n. 98 freedom  32, 34, 44, 101, 173, 175–6, 181, 186, 188, 191, 196, 197, 201 from judgement  150–1 threat to  146 friendliness, notion of  19 friendship and politics, exploration of  11–17

227 in earthly cities  22–3, 36–8 Augustinian objection  25–7 avoiding of Cicerian logic  34–6 Christian political thought traditions  23–5 civic friendship as idolatry  30–4 and common good  28–30 in relation to each other  17–22

Graaff, Guido de  100n. 22, 101n. 29, 102n. 33, 157n. 10, 161n. 25, 193n. 50, 195n. 61 Gebhardt, Jürgen  20n. 20 German Evangelical Church  49 Goebbels, Joseph  126n. 11 Goerdeler, Carl  54n. 63, 130 good life, notion of  32 government  14–16 Green, Clifford J.  44n. 17, 195n. 61 Gregory, Eric  83 Greschat, Martin  183nn. 12–16, 184, 187n. 29 Im Zeichen der Schuld (‘Marked by Guilt’)  182 Gruchy, John W. de  195n. 61 guilt  139, 181, 195–6 collective  132n. 35, 183 confession of  131n. 30, 137, 138, 175, 185–7 of human beings  194 repentance of  138 solidarity of  183, 186, 194, 197, 208 war  183 Hauerwas, Stanley  4n. 16, 7, 71, 72n. 33, 202, 203 Haynes, Stephen R.  43n. 13, 44n. 17 Heckel, Theodor  47–50 Henriod, Henry  47 Heuser, Stefan  193n. 50, 200n. 71 Hildebrandt, Franz  52 historical progress, notion of  145–6 Hitler, Adolf  42, 47–9, 51, 53 idolatry civic friendship as  30–4 Meilander’s charge of  27 imagination  18, 29, 31, 48, 58, 60, 67, 73, 113–15

228

Index

in-betweenness  77, 82–3 iudicium cessans principle  104, 111, 122, 125, 126n. 10 Jasper, Ronald C. D.  40n. 2, 42n. 9, 47n. 26, 49n. 37, 52n. 52, 60 Jesus of Nazareth  96–7 Bell and Bonhoeffer as friends in  174–8 gift of friendship  153–64 see also Bible, references to Johansson, Harry  54 Jones, Gregory  72n. 33 judgement  6–9, 16, 91, 98–9 aesthetic  111–14, 143–5 company of  117–19, 123–33, 202 divine  38 ecclesial (see ecclesial judgement) emergency  6, 7, 104, 116, 122, 123, 125, 126, 190 freedom from  150 and friends in dark times  119–22 and friendship  116–17, 122, 124–7 of God  147–9, 152, 153, 166–7, 178, 188, 193, 195, 196, 200, 201, 203 hyper-reflective  145 and Kantian aesthetics  111–14 moral  101 and moral reasoning  110–11 in mutual submission  171–2 obedient  151–2 political  6, 8, 93, 99, 101–3, 114, 125, 129, 132–6, 140, 141, 144, 147, 149n. 88, 174, 190 as political act  8, 99–105 in political crises  105–11 and political aesthetics  114–16 and public realm  147 received in friendship  172–8 in repentance and forgiveness  133–40 Kant, Immanuel  97, 111, 134, 143, 145, 146n. 77, 150n. 90, 173 on aesthetic judgement  111–14 Critique of Judgement  111, 144 Kateb, George  90n. 94, 107n. 47, 114n. 78, 115n. 81 Kelly, Geffrey B.  45n. 22, 195n. 61 King, Preston  3n. 9, 18n. 13, 19 Koch, Karl  50

Koechlin, Alphonse  47, 51 Kohn, Jerome  121n. 106 Konstan, David  158n. 14 Kreisau Circle  130, 131 Krusche, Werner  183n. 13, 184n. 21 Lamb, Charles  12n. 3 Lang, Cosmo  50 Lear, Richardson Gabriel  32n. 58 Leibholz, Gerhard  51–2 Lewis, C. S.  12–13, 71, 83, 157n. 10, 162 The Four Loves  161 Life and Work Council  48, 50 Lilje, Hans  183 Locke, John  28 love  12–13, 26, 35, 64, 82–3, 153–4, 156–62, 175, 208 community of  27 of God  157 idolatrous  27, 30 mutuality in  12 preferential  157 reciprocal  2, 161 sacrificial  23, 36 self-  27 universal  23, 27 Luther, Martin  100, 170 Lynch, Sandra  1n. 4 McIntyre, Alisdair  72n. 33 magnanimity  68n. 18 Mallet, Victor  54, 55 Marahrens, Bishop  183 Martel, James R.  3n. 9 Marx, Karl  72n. 33 Maurice, F. D.  40 mediation, concept of  169–70 Meilaender, Gilbert  2n. 6, 5, 11, 24n. 28, 25–7, 58, 63, 89, 161 Friendship: A Study in Theological Ethics  25 Moberly, Jennifer  193n. 51 Moltmann, Jürgen  60n. 86 moral judgements  101 moral reasoning and judgement  110–11 moral significance, of thought  108–9, 118 Moses, John A.  130n. 21 Mulgan, Richard  26n. 40, 74n. 37 Müller, Bishop  47–9

Index Nehamas, Alexander  1 Nelson, F. Burton  45n. 22, 195n. 61 New Testament  23–4, 100, 157n. 12, 164 see also Bible, references to New Yorker  107 Nicgorski, Walter  35n. 69 Niemöller, Martin  181, 183, 184, 186, 187 Nuremberg tribunal  181 Nygren, Anders  157nn. 10–11 obedience and spectatorship see spectatorship O’Callaghan, Paul D.  1n. 4, 161n. 24, 163n. 31 O’Donovan, Joan Lockwood  3n. 10, 4n. 14, 24n. 29 O’Donovan, Oliver  4n. 12, 6, 14–15, 14n. 6, 16, 24n. 29, 28, 29, 74n. 36, 90, 93, 101–5, 109–11, 116, 122, 125, 126n. 10, 127n. 14, 142, 143n. 65, 148–51, 166, 175, 185nn. 22–3, 193n. 51, 201 The Ways of Judgment  3, 8–9, 14, 93, 99–100, 102, 103, 150 Old Testament  100, 127n. 13 see also Bible, references to otherness  35 Pakaluk, Michael  1 Pangle, Lorraine Smith  1n. 4, 68n. 17 parapolitical friendship  21–2, 61–2, 88, 90, 128, 152, 173, 202 parliamentary democracy  16 Paton, William  53n. 58 philia  157, 161 Pinches, Charles  4n. 16, 202n. 75 plurality  76, 78–80, 82–3, 85, 95n. 5, 114, 119, 121 police judgements  103 political aesthetics  114–16 political authority  3, 15, 24, 62, 96, 99, 102–5, 122, 127, 142, 148, 149n. 88, 167, 177 political community, as analogy of friendship  24–5, 27 political darkness  147 political friendship  4, 8, 17, 18, 20, 31, 34, 65–9, 73

229

political judgement  6, 8, 93, 99, 101–3, 114, 125, 129, 132–6, 140, 141, 144, 147, 149n. 88, 174, 190 political representation  99, 103, 149n. 88, 150, 186, 202 political society and friends in Church  179 friendship within body of Christ and  179–89 political responsibility and  189–90 political action as responsibility and  190–5 political responsibility and  195–6 responsibility in friendship and  196–200 power  17, 35, 56, 88, 105, 120, 148, 168–70 of forgiveness  97 human  96–8 imaginative  115 of judgement  115 military  54, 60, 129, 132 as phenomenon  80–2 political  80, 89 and promise and friendship  82–6 transfer of  103 see also empowerment practical reason, judgements of  102 Price, A. W.  1, 64n. 4, 68nn. 14, 17, 70n. 24, 72n. 31 promising  82–5, 90–1, 102 and forgiveness  94–6, 138n. 51 genuine  91 mutual  84, 88, 95, 128 political shapes of  84–5 revoking of  85 public realm  63, 78–9, 82, 84–5, 90–1, 94, 105, 112, 114–15, 117, 119, 121, 142–3, 145, 202 and judgement  147 and political solidarity  101n. 27 and power  81 Putnam, Robert D.  1n. 2 Rackham, H.  67, 68n. 15, 71n. 26 Raina, Peter  46n. 23, 47n. 27, 48n. 33, 49n. 38, 51nn. 46–7, 52nn. 54–5, 53n. 57, 54nn. 60, 63, 55nn. 65, 68, 70, 56n. 72, 126n. 11, 129n. 19, 131nn. 27, 31, 132n. 32, 138n. 52, 196n. 62

230

Index

reconciliation  7, 9, 27, 127, 133, 136–7, 141–2, 144–7, 149, 161, 174, 175, 182, 187, 189, 192–3, 203 absence of  100 and friendship  138–40 genuine  186 redemptive politics  202, 203 Reinders, Hans  162 repentance  133–5, 148, 152, 174–8, 181, 184, 186, 197, 206 collective  185 and diplomacy  129–33 as judgement  135–8 in vicarious manner  195 respect, as political value  82 Robertson, Edwin  41, 42n. 10, 45n. 20, 46nn. 23, 25, 47n. 28, 48nn. 30, 34, 49nn. 39–40, 50n. 45, 51nn. 49–50, 52nn. 52, 54, 53n. 58, 54nn. 59, 61, 56n. 71, 57n. 74, 59nn. 81–4, 182n. 9, 184n. 17, 213 Robinson, J. A. T.  43n. 13 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques Social Contract  29, 86n. 89, 168n. 41 Rupp, Gordon  40, 48n. 31, 88n. 91, 181, 183n. 16, 184nn. 17–18, 208 St Paul  7, 151, 153, 156, 164–9, 170nn. 54–5, 171–2, 177 Salkever, Stephen  65n. 6 Schindler, Jeanne  23, 24n. 30 Schleicher, Rüdiger  45 Schlingensiepen, Ferdinand  44n. 19, 45n. 20, 46nn. 24–5, 52nn. 53–4, 59n. 81, 72n. 33, 126n. 11, 127n. 16, 130n. 21, 131nn. 27, 29, 132n. 36, 186n. 28 Schnackenburg, Rudolf  156n. 7, 158n. 14, 160n. 19 Schollmeier, Paul  66n. 12 Schönfeld, Hans  47, 52–4, 60, 88, 128–35, 138–41, 175, 189, 205–6 Schwartz, Daniel  1n. 4, 23n. 27, 66n. 11, 72n. 31, 158n. 14 Schwarzenbach, Sybil  19 self-consciousness  108 self-disclosure  75–6 self-indictment  138

self-justification  175, 192n. 48, 194 self-sacrifice  164 as temptation  158–62 service, among Jesus’ friends  162–4 Sigtuna meeting  7, 54, 59–62, 87, 123, 127–9, 134, 135, 138, 140, 147, 149, 174–8, 182, 186–90, 195–7, 200, 203 sin  3, 29, 97–8, 137, 148, 163n. 30, 169, 186, 194, 196 Slack, Kenneth  40n. 2, 42n. 11, 59n. 82 Smith, Graham M.  18n. 13 Söderblom, Nathan  41 Spaemann, Robert  72n. 33, 77n. 56 spectatorship  140–2 and critical distance and obedience  146–9 beyond judgement  150–2 judgement as  142–6 spontaneity  76, 83 radical  146 Stern-Gillet, Suzanne  1n. 4 Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt  180–2, 189, 207–9 disagreements with  182–4 friends preserving Christ’s rule and  187–9 representation modes  184–7 Summers, Steve  12n. 1, 157nn. 9–10, 12, 158n. 14, 202n. 73 Friendship  2 synoptic gospels see ecclesial judgement Temple, William  40 thinking and judgement  109 The Times  47, 48 Townsend, Nicholas  16n. 10 Ulrich, Hans  21n. 21 Universal Christian Council for Life and Work  41 universal communicability  113 unpredictability, problem of  76, 83–5, 94–5, 97–8 Van der Zweerde, Evert  20 Vansittart, Lord  42, 58 vengeance  95, 100, 206 Vernon, Mark  1n. 4, 12n. 1

Index Villa, Dana  74n. 38, 143n. 61 virtue  33 and disposition  68–9 ethics  4n. 16 friendships of  20, 34–5, 65, 67–70 political  68 virtuous friendship  35, 68, 70 Visser’t Hooft, W. A.  51, 53n. 58, 55 vita activa  75–6, 80, 88, 93, 97, 143 vita contemplativa  75, 93, 142 Vitoria, Francisco de  126n. 10 Von Heyking, John  24–5 Friendship & Politics  23

231

Wadell, Paul  2n. 6, 157n. 11, 160n. 18 Waldron, Jeremy  84n. 83 Wannenwetsch, Bernd  8, 33n. 60, 115n. 84, 165–71, 189n. 34, 192n. 48, 197n. 66, 199n. 68, 216 Waters, Brent  13n. 5, 137nn. 48–9, 138n. 51 Westcott, B. F.  40 wholeness, notion of  32 Witoszek, Nina  22 Word Council of Churches (WCC)  41, 189 Young-Bruehl, Elisabeth  106n. 41, 120nn. 99, 103, 124nn. 2, 4